


World Eater

by evanuris



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Mentions of Mental Illness, Morrowind, Multi, Skyrim - Freeform, and recycle!!!, but does make slight bends here and there, nirn loves the three r's, oblivion, reduce, reuse, this is meant to be lore friendly, trying to do once a week, updates slowly, very very very old nerevarine, well it is a nerevarine becomes dragonborn fic so, what if the nerevarine was also the dragonborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-01-23 12:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12507220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanuris/pseuds/evanuris
Summary: Daynil Ravethi, an ancient Nerevarine, wakes up on Akavir alone. As she tries to escape the thawing ice demons, the Kamal, she is taken back to Tamriel in order to fulfill another prophecy. With Morrowind in ashes and her deeds almost forgotten by the world, Daynil travels to her childhood home in Skyrim for answers. Her values strong and her goal clear in her mind, she embarks towards her destiny.The time has come for her to complete her duty to the world.





	1. Prologue: Panic and Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet never shall you have your rule over me.  
> Never shall I tremble or flinch from your power.  
> Never shall I yield my home and hearth.  
> And from my tears shall spring forth  
> The flowers of grassland springs.  
> \-- ‘The Five Far Stars’, an Ashlander verse

 

**_Akavir, an icy beach, 4E 199_ **

 

Ice. Ice cold clung to her breath and the shivering rocks beneath her feet burned through the flimsy leather of her shoes. Breathe. Look behind. Breathe. Look behind. The woman followed the clumsy mantra in her head as she sprinted in the open fields of rock. Behind her, heavy stomps of ice upon ice echoed and struck fear into her heart. 

 

Breathe. Look behind.

 

The monsters were catching up, demons of ice and cold. She shivered, the fur that covered her body doing nothing to protect her from the snow and freezing temperatures. She didn’t know how much time had passed since she had fallen into that cave, since her entourage had disappeared from her vision and blackness took over. Corprus kept her alive, but her party didn’t have Corprus. Were they alive? Was she leaving them behind, to die?

 

Breath. Look behind.

 

The valleys were thawing, that’s what woke these… things, up. She had to move quickly, far quicker than what she could in her condition. Her bones creaked with every action, her every move seeming more akin to Bonelords than to an actual, living being. The woman’s eyes were glued to the horizon, for even the slightest sliver of hope. Nothing. Nothing but jutting rocks and pulsing sea; beating sea, endless sea.

 

Breathe. Look behind.

 

She couldn’t even see the valleys anymore. The demons, Kamal, they called themselves, were further now. A frantic smile appeared on her face and her legs seemed to move faster, more energised. She had a chance. 

 

Her smile quickly disappeared as she realised where she was going; the peninsula. Oh no, there was no exit, nothing here but sea! Her ship crashed here, but she knew it was dragged away, along with her screaming, always screaming, crew members. 

 

Breathe. Look behind. 

 

The land seemed to drop now, as if she was going higher and higher. She swore she could see the clouds amidst the anger of rain. Would water stop them? Foolish, it was foolish to think so. The woman trekked up the peninsula, navigating the rocks and icy ground. The silence around unnerved her and for once, she wished that Azura would speak to her again. 

 

Breathe. Look behind.

 

She was at the tip of the cliff and soon the Kamal she had been running from began to climb the peninsula as she did. She barely had one moment to think about her death, so took what she could. 

 

She would die just as Vivec had predicted; swallowed by Nirn. 

 

The winds began to whip violently around the woman, making her balance unstable. The Kamal seemed to have no problem with it, so why would she? She was going to die here anyway. Rain stirred in the heavens, thunder now clapping, a harsh encore for the life the woman gave the world. As the weather grew in size and intensity, the woman whispered a prayer to her creator, to her Mother.

 

“As the time twists through the sphere of the sun, conceiving the doing of all souls. Pray it not be Mehrunes Dagon, to reap the harvest you have sown,” the murmur was barely heard, even by her. The Kamal were appearing, honing in on their target slowly as if to savour her fear.

 

“But on the grimmest of days when all has been taken, let hope never be forsaken. Invoked through Nirn's fiery night, kneel upon the shrine of Azura and let there be a glimpse of light.[1]” The woman felt her knees shaking and her balance faltering. The Kamal were nearly upon her, only metres away. One burly demon raised a pillar of crooked ice over it’s head and with a sharp action, thrusted downwards.

 

But nothing. Nothing was there. 

 

For the woman, she was high in the air, above the clouds and touching the velvet sky. Had she died? The soft, healing power that she had felt what seemed a lifetime ago proved otherwise.

 

“Hush, child,” a maternal voice spoke, gentle to her ears. Tears pricked her eyes and she began to softly sob. “It is unfortunate that Mephala sent you here, my daughter. But, it has taught you.”

 

Gentle. How gentle the light was that shone only on the woman. The clouds moved slowly but the woman knew that she was travelling, too fast for a mere mortal, if she could call herself that.

 

“You are needed again my sweet child. Show me that you have not forgotten who you are. There is much to be done,” the woman’s vision began to darken and she desperately tried to cling to consciousness, “Quiet. I will not let you fall, not yet. Nerevarine, created in my image. Daynil Ravethi, created in my image. Do not disappoint me again.”

 

With that, a cold black crept into her eyes and she slept again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Courtesy of the TES3 mod, Tamriel Rebuilt


	2. Retrograde Existence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life isn't over. You can still get smarter, or cleverer, or more experienced, or meaner -- but your body and soul just aren't going to get any younger.

 

_**Raven Rock, Solstheim 4E 199** _

 

The sun peaked over the horizon but it was not the first to set its sights on Raven Rock. The ashen settlement seemed frigid and dark, the shadows casted by the morning light giving the town an almost frightening look. Small bone and wooden chimes fluttered in the low wind, the sound of waves hitting the shore aligned with the melody they produced. Cloth swayed softly like signs, the array of colours giving Raven Rock some semblance of the mainland's vibrancy.

 

Despite it being the earlier hours of the morning, small groups of people shuffled along the roads, their clothes worn with dirt and pickaxes slung over their shoulders lazily. It was a rhythmic suffering, the way they dragged their feet across the dust and ash of the road. Faces no longer held any kind of expression, just servitude and neutral obedience.

 

Chitin-covered guards patrolled alongside them, nodding to each other as they passed. This was commonplace, the hopelessness of desperate miners. With the ebony mines declared dry, Solstheim was wrecked with instability and a declining calm that the Redoran tried fervently to retain. Now with elders speaking of the Red days, when the Red Tower became fire and ash, panic seemed all the more ready to settle in. Citizens of Raven Rock didn't like thinking about those times for heroes lived amongst them and made it seem bearable.

 

That reality was no more here.

 

The world moved on with or without heroes and so did Raven Rock. As the sun began it's ascent in the sky, more and more residents of the town left their homes to begin their day. Stall owners began to catalogue goods and arrange them in a desirable fashion, occasionally stopping by their neighbours' shops and exchanging small talk. Labourers headed to the docks, ready to begin another day of hauling imported and exported goods.

 

The slums were always last to wake; no one would hire them, so why wake up for a job they didn't have? Inside the old buildings whose walls were two hits away from becoming ash themselves, Skooma addicts, bandits, unsuccessful mercenaries, the poor, the sick, and dying stayed. Packed like fish they slept and lived, unaware of the world passing by. Due to the lack of space, many of these people also slept outside, uncaring if a guard were to tell them off.

 

Usually, there was nothing interesting about these parasites. What drew particular interest this day however, was the sleeping body of a woman who had smudged red warpaint upon her face. The body was covered by thick blankets whose questionable smell attracted the interests of flies and strays. Long white hair was knotted and wild; sticks and leaves stuck in the strands that seemed perpetually wet. It wasn't the barbaric appearance that stuck with Raven Rock's residents, no, it was the fact that she had not moved in three days.

 

Sleeping or dead. Either way it was unsettling.

 

The guards expected death within the slums; they were called slums for a reason. But this was no particular body. Some said they heard her breathe, some say they didn't. Some spoke of a tale where the appearance of the dead but sleeping was an indication of the Reclamation's wrath. For those that believed the tales, they hurried along to the temple and prayed.

 

So the captain of the guard came to a conclusion; if she didn't wake up on the fourth day, then they'd dump and burn her, like they did with the rest of the nameless dead. As it was the fourth day, the guard elected Ulkos Nadthyn, a junior member of the Redoran, to investigate and try to wake up this woman, if the dead could wake at all.

 

Ulkos felt strange walking from the Bulwark and down the ashy path towards a dead woman (his mind was quite made up on the topic of her mortality). He had the desire to prove himself to the Redoran as a worthy member of the guard so he didn’t question his orders despite how foolish it seemed to wake the dead. No one would take his opinion seriously, even after all he had done to make Raven Rock hospitable again.

Another day, another sigh became his motto.

 

As Ulkos passed the Temple, determined to prove her deceased status once and for all, he noticed a gleam he had never seen before coming from her hands. Was this just a trick of the light? Frowning, he made his way to the woman and knelt. Nothing was different; the same dirt covered face with small scars across her left cheekbone to her lip. Dry lips were cracked and split, the rest of face seeming pale and malnourished. Her fingers were bundled in her lap, the thinness of the bone there scaring him to an extent. Yes, she had not changed from the moment his patrol had found her.

 

Shaking his head, the guard cast his view to her hands, curled in her lap. Thin and sickly fingers clasped something but he couldn’t make out what it was and hesitantly, he pried her fingers open. It made him feel gross, almost nasty, like he was robbing an ancestral tomb.

 

The guard paused and looked around. What if someone thought he was stealing? He wouldn't be able to explain himself in this position and then some misinformed fool would run to the Bulwark and tell Captain Veleth about it. Then, what would be the point of being a Redoran, if Veleth even let him stay? No, he should just leave it.

 

The thought was swirling in his mind but by some magic, he felt the compulsion to take whatever the object was for his own. All logical thoughts escaped his mind, leaving him only with a desire to follow his curiosity.

 

His gaze returned on her hands and immediately he reached into them, fishing out what she held. Ulkos was thankful that she was dead; at least she had no grip. Holding out his bounty, he squinted.

 

“A ring…” he murmured, enchanted by the brilliant golden star and silver moon. The band was worn and the metal seemed like it had seen better days, but it was still beautiful. Where had he seen such a pattern before? The thin curve of the moon that waned into the golden star? Perhaps in one of his mother's books, when she used to read to him stories of their history?

 

As he thought, Ulkos held the ring steady and slowly brought it to his finger. Slowly, bit by bit he brought it closer to his forefinger. The closer the ring got, the more he wanted to wear it, to show it off. He could imagine the jealousy, the respect of his fellow guardsmen. By Oblivion, he could see Captain Veleth promoting him.

 

And all he had to do was inch it closer to his hand, closer, and closer, and closer, until…

 

“Don’t,” the woman who had been presumed dead by him rasped, “It… will… kill you.” The desire Ulkos held towards the ring vanished and he stumbled back, falling on his behind. The ring had fallen from his grip onto the ground where it lay, forgotten by him.

Instead, he eyed the woman with fear and surprise. He was sure she was dead, so why did she only wake when he tried to put on the ring? Ulkos searched her face for some indication of her purpose but only saw fatigue and a small hint of confusion. Breathing heavily, she clasped her throat, running fingers up her neck and down her body, as if checking they were still there. Her diaphragm shook with exertion, the source of which the guard couldn't tell.

 

Remembering what he had just done, Ulkos began to explain himself.

 

“I didn’t, I uh, your ring, um, I--”

 

“Water… I would… like some water, please.” She coughed out. Ulkos, taking advantage of her lack of notice of his crime, scrambled to his feet and ran towards the Bulwark for some water. As he left, the woman closed her eyes once more and tried to control her breathing, digging her fingers into the ground beside her.

 

Breathe.

 

Breathe.

 

Memories of snow and ice gripped Daynil’s mind; the Kamal, the storm, her ship. Azura saved her from the Kamal and sent her back to Tamriel. But where exactly? Her first guess would have been Mournhold, or even somewhere on Vvardenfell being a Dunmer but somehow, it didn’t feel like she was in any major city.

 

Shaking her head in confusion, Daynil opened her eyes and looked for the ring the guard had dropped. It was strange to not see it on her fingers, especially since that was all she had left from her quest.

 

The ring rested next to her bare foot, half buried in the dust. Slowly she reached out for it and placed it gingerly on her fingers. Once the ring was on her finger, a spreading warmth covered her body, filling every muscle in her body with some energy and health. Daynil breathed out a sigh of relief.

 

“I thought it would kill you if you put it on,” the guard from before was in front of her, Daynil’s mind too engrossed in her own thoughts that she did not notice his return.

 

Kneeling, he placed the water skin to her lips. By the Ancestors, she didn’t realise how thirsty she was until she took her first gulp. Never in the 1230 years she had been alive, had she felt this thirst, even as a vampire. It felt like years, perhaps even centuries had passed since she had some pure water to drink. Knowing what happened, it probably was.

 

When she finished the skin, the guard clipped it to his chitin belt. The question he asked hung in the air, coercing Daynil to answer him. Sighing, she tried to push herself up, ignoring the immense pain the action created.

 

“You are right--” she winced as she clung to the wall, her legs sore and aching, “but, ugh, the ring is mine. It won’t, ow, hurt me.” The guard only raised an eyebrow.

 

“If you say so,” he shrugged, “Do you need some help up?”

 

“No,” Daynil stood, albeit shakily, “I should be fine. At least I hope. I feel like I haven't moved in a while, to be honest.”

 

She heard a chuckle emanating from the man and felt herself laughing too. Yes, this situation was indeed funny but not for the reasons Ulkos founded.

“You haven't. We all thought you were dead, well, mainly me, but still. You were dead and then suddenly, awake.” He emphasised the sudden nature of her waking with his hands. Daynil smiled, amused at the fact.

 

“Oh, really?” she asked, “How long was I asleep?”

 

“Three days,” Ulkos explained, “you didn’t even stir in your sleep.” The man looked left to the docks to see the sun now well and truly up in the sky. Ulkos would be late to his morning shift once again. He couldn't just leave this woman to her whims when he had well, tried to steal from her. He gestured towards the temple, the large building on his right and cast a look at the woman.

 

"Look, I'm going to be late so I might as well help you out," he said, "the name's Ulkos. I'm part of the Redoran that guard Raven Rock. You look worse for wear so why don't you head up to the temple there and talk to Elder Othreloth. If you mention my name, he'll give you some chores in exchange for a room and some food. It's hard work, but more honest than what you could be doing."

 

“Thank you, Ulkos," she paused, remembering her original curiosity, “though I'm still not sure where I am. Where am I?” The guard looked taken aback by her question.

 

“You’re in Raven Rock, Solstheim. The year is 199, Fourth Era,” his voice was bewildered and his shock proved that this information was obvious, to him at least. “Uh, look, I have a job to get back to. If you don’t need anything else, I shall take my leave.”

Daynil pondered for a moment, considering her scarce inventory. No Keening, no glass armor, no enchanted Hortator robes. Just her ring. She nodded and dipped her head in respect.

 

“I don’t need anything else, muthsera. Thank you kindly for waking me.” With a brisk nod, the guard walked away. Daynil stood listlessly for a moment, the reality of her situation hitting her.

 

More than 180 years had passed since she embarked to Akavir. So much had changed in those years. Daynil remembered fields of undisturbed snow covering Raven Rock with footsteps trudging in and out of the ebony mine, rich with ore and Septims. Perhaps it was the events of the Red Year that led to Solstheim's current appearance. She hadn’t been able to see the island when Red Mountain erupted as Vvardenfell and the mainland needed her. A pang of regret struck her heart as she took a moment to consider the future if she did help, a future where her people seemed less… miserable.

 

Still clinging to the wall, she looked around, noticing the worn faces of the people around her. The Dunmer, her people, walked about; some lugging around large boxes as Nords dictated their instructions and others enticing potential customers to buy their small variety of produce. Sunken faces revealed hardships and strifes that Daynil thought she had prevented, that Daynil thought she had remedied. Was this the legacy she had left behind?

 

Daynil shook her head and moved her vision to the large building that Ulkos showed her. According to him, it was their temple. It was bigger than the rest of the buildings and a structure she did not remember seeing. A small flight of stairs led to an outer garden-like area that Daynil could barely see from her position by the docks but even then was in a better condition than the building she currently stood by. She felt happy that at least her people still valued the Reclamations and their Ancestors. Despite this, it was definitely not as large as she expected for a temple, but the familiar curve of the building made her chuckle.

 

‘Typical Redoran,’ she mused. Yes, this was a Redoran city, wasn’t it? Buildings surrounded the Temple in a traditional village-esque style. Daynil was surprised they kept the Bulwark; something so inexplicably ‘outsider’ that she was convinced they spat ‘n’wah’ at it when they walked by. Or perhaps House Redoran had changed?

 

Bah, Daynil was sure they still liked stabbing things.

 

This was no time to question Redoran. They were the ones that stayed to help Solstheim, that pushed back the armies of Argonians while Hlaalu and her own House Telvanni fled in the opposite direction. It was shameful to badmouth those that protected others when she failed to.

 

She pushed back the regrets of the past and began to walk towards the temple and meet this Elder Othreloth.

 

The ash of the path felt uncomfortable to her bare flesh and Daynil found herself cursing her lack of footwear and in general, her lack of equipment. Her legs felt like fire, burning with every move. Occasionally, Daynil stumbled and clung to a nearby wall or support she could find. She needed to reach the temple before she couldn't walk for good.

When she reached the stairs, she pushed her body and nearly collapsed. Her breath heaved and her heart squeezed with fatigue. How was she so out of breath? She used to climb mountains for the sheer joy and now can’t even climb a small flight of stairs? 

 

How much damage had Akavir done to her? The protection that Azura placed over her had dissolved the moment Ulkos had woken her, the warmth of the dawn gone with the rising of the sun. Daynil stopped and pressed a tentative hand against her body. She released a sigh of relief as she still felt flesh and fat. Azura has felt particularly kind it seems.

 

Daynil made a mental note to work on her endurance; she could not remain as she was now that she had a duty to attend to. The stairs were conquered in their due time, the Dunmer never happier than when she saw the top of the flight of stairs.

 

With a few steps, she moved (well, fell) towards the large door of the temple and gently pushed them open. Finally getting the hang of walking, Daynil proceeded to slowly stroll into the building.

 

The Temple’s walls were decorated in varied cloths, all different shades of brown and red printed with the symbols and depictions of the Reclamations; Boethiah, Mephala, and Azura. The smell of incense filled the building, riding a soft breeze that disturbed the array of candles around the corner of the halls.There was a large staircase leading to the lower levels of the buildings which Daynil had assumed contained the sleeping quarters and storage areas while upstairs housed respective shrine and general Ancestor Tombs. She would not want to disturb a sleeping priest so she opted to walk towards a shrine and pay her respects to her matron. She cast her eyes along the eastern wall, following the assortment of woven baskets, crates and strange kinds of food that she assumed came with the ash. 

 

Daynil walked along the wall and absorbed her surroundings. This was all so new, yet, somehow it retained a style close to what she was used to. Hanging cloths differed little when compared to massive tapestries dedicated to the Tribunal. There were little to no plants in there, well, no green plants but other than that, it seemed that nothing else had changed. 

 

It was certainly comforting.  

 

When she came to a path branching off into three sections, she could see the shrines dedicated to Mephala, Boethiah, and Azura respectively. 

 

She walked forward towards the shrine of Boethiah, bowing slightly and speaking a soft prayer to the Daedra. Respect was important, especially now that she had a duty to complete. Perhaps Boethiah would aid in her quest like they did 200 years or so prior.

 

Hopefully.

 

Daynil didn’t bother with Mephala’s shrine, finding the thought of praying to her both uncomfortable and pointless. Azura told her that Mephala had caused the troubles she suffered on Akavir but other than that, nothing. It was sufficient for the Prince to earn her mistrust, however. But still, she reconsidered. Mephala was powerful and she controlled fate, something that had seemed to work against the woman in recent events. Quickly, she spoke a prayer and left it like that.

 

No need to suck up to higher powers. Well, not yet anyway.

 

Rapidly moving on, Daynil walked into the final alcove where Azura’s shrine was placed. It bore the Prince’s image in a more modern style; her prominent hair and signature star out of the picture. It was still recognisable however; Azura’s piercing eyes shone, even through the black ink of her printed image. Small offerings of food and Septims were placed near the shrine in a basket, some littering around the shrine itself. No source of light other than the half-burned candles existed near the shrine, leaving Daynil somewhat in the dark. A common thing when working for this particular Daedric Prince.

 

Daynil figured that she should pay her respects and kneeled before the shrine. Placing her hands together, she focussed on her words and repeated her prayers in her mind. It had been years since she prayed to Azura for general things and simple guidance, Knowing Azura cared not for such things, finding menial tasks to be insulting, and preferred to be praised for her power and blessings. Yes, Azura preferred things to be done quickly in her name, leaving the more ‘common’ tasks to mortals such as Daynil. She supposed now she had better things to do than clearing out bandits, or, killing rogue priests and priestesses. Finishing her prayer, Daynil decided that it was enough to pray for now and decided to stand.

 

As Daynil moved to stand up, a rough voice was heard coming from behind her. 

 

“Ah, a young one praying. Not an often sight these days,” the voice scoffed, “Many would prefer to complain about the drying up mine before doing anything to fix it.” Daynil turned to face the owner of the voice, surprised that another was inside. The man had the signature dunmer cheekbones that disappeared with the presence of a blonde beard. By its appearance, Daynil assumed this man to be at least a century old. He was dressed in clothes that resembled a priest’s garments with blue cloth and red and yellow pieces of fabric hanging off his shoulders, Daedric runes scrawled upon them in an aesthetic manner. In his hands was a small broom that seemed worn and battered with use. No wonder the temple was so clean. Daynil turned to face the man but he shushed her and held a hand up.

 

“No, no, I shouldn’t have interrupted. Please, do continue,” the priest said, turning away from Daynil. She was confused for a moment, but quickly stood up with the intention of asking where this Elder Othreloth was. However, her body was still not used to the exertion and she fell against the wall harshly, pushing over some baskets and bottles of mead.

 

The priest turned around, startled by the noises. Daynil groaned at the strain of her muscles and attempted to move forward, only to stumble and push over more boxes. She felt her hand being guided around someone’s shoulder, the weight of her body distributing to them also. The pain in her legs subsided substantially, but the dull ache that came with most hurt still remained. The priest sighed deeply, adjusting his grip on the woman.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Daynil nodded, gritting her teeth together.

 

The priest led her to a nearby stool and placed her on it. For moment, he disappeared before returning with some food and a small cup of water, or at least what she thought was water. He sat down on the chair across her and gestured to the food.

 

“Eat. Don’t worry, I will not charge you for the meal,” he said softly, “You look like you haven’t eaten in a while, my child.” While he wasn’t wrong, Daynil doubted that was the reason behind her fatigue. Still she dipped her head in respect.

 

“I think I haven’t,” she picked up a red vegetable and took a bite, “that guard, Ulkos, he told me I was asleep for three days.” It tasted strange and almost like the ash she had seen outside. The priest must’ve seen her reaction to the food as he chuckled.

 

“That’s an ash yam; it won’t bite you,” he laughed, “and you mentioned Ulkos, eh? That boy has a good heart but he’s no judge of character.” The man paused for a moment, placing a hand on his beard. He looked at Daynil, eyeing her, before sighing again. “Some of the people he sends me are just very frustrating. Tell me, are you going to be frustrating?”

 

“It is not on the agenda, though, I would like to know your name, muthsera.” Daynil said.

 

“Hah! What manners! My name is Elder Othreloth. I look after this temple and oversee the sacred duties of our True Tribunal.” Othreloth spoke with conviction, as befitting a priest. Daynil recognised the name as the one Ulkos told her to seek out.

 

A small hint of surprise tugged at her thoughts, her mind confused as to why she didn’t connect the dots earlier.

 

“Forgive me, Elder. I’m new to Solstheim so I’ve no idea about who’s who,” she took a bite from the yam, the taste growing on her, “I thought that since this was a temple, no one mind if I prayed and gave what I could.” 

 

“And what can you give? If you were sent here, you have nothing,” the Elder inquired. Daynil ate some more before nodding, agreeing with his words.

 

“You’re right, but possessions don’t equal skill,” Daynil said, “I could be a general and no one would know. They would just question. My skill is the only thing I can keep giving, so why lug around physical objects? ‘Keep nothing in your house that is neither needed or beautiful’, as the Saint Vivec poetically describes.” The priest’s face fell, anger slightly churning in the eyes of the man.

 

“You’d do best not to quote one of the false Tribunal in this place, sera,” he spoke with more edge to his voice, “we worship the Reclamations; the others were never meant to be cornerstones of our faith.” Daynil paused. She seemed to have touched a nerve, knowing full well what had transpired in the history of her people and how it could’ve affected someone as old as him. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again; she would not want to offend the man who had shown her great kindness.

 

“Once again, you’re right,” Daynil spoke, starting slowly, “I don’t worship the saints, but I believe it best to know what went wrong. With them, at least.” She finished the last of her food and pulled up her sleeve to reveal a moon and star tattoo; something she got just before she left for Akavir. “My matron is Azura. Believe me, I have no aching desire to start praising them.” She left the sleeve of the shirt fall and looked at Othreloth, gauging his expression. He huffed and crossed his arms.

 

“Very well, I see your… logic,” he let out a slight chuckle that seemed only bitter at this point, “but no more quoting, I implore you. You seem less stupid than you let on and I really wouldn’t want to hear more of that… crap.” An exasperated sigh was heard and Daynil chuckled.

 

“I swear by the Ancestors, not one quote shall escape my mouth while I’m in your service. As long as food keeps moving my way, I’ll be happy.”

 

“That’s good to hear, your enthusiasm is well received,” the man shuffled in his seat, “Now, what skills do you have besides conversational ones?” Daynil frowned and shrugged.

 

“Um, well, I’m a mage? Uh, I can use a sword and I actually can hit with it, and um, I’ve swept floors before?” Smiling sheepishly, she gestured to herself. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been in any action and my muscles are killing me. I’d probably need a healer or something akin to that if you want any heavy lifting. I know some priest duties that I could help with. I’m afraid I’m more of a merc than anything.” While she spoke, Othreloth nodded his head, his expression changing occasionally. 

 

“Well, I don’t need a merc,” he began, “but, I would like an extra pair of hands. Galdrus is testing for lack of a better word, and I need someone more willing to follow orders. Besides, I’m sure he would also appreciate the help, being a mage too.” Daynil scoffed.

 

“You think so? I’m pretty sure all mages are out to get one another, to get more power or leverage in the great pursuit of knowledge,” Daynil questioned.

 

“This isn’t the Telvanni, girl! That age has gone and passed, years ago. The only Telvanni on this island is a relic and practically useless. The rest are busy kissing Mournhold noble behinds.” Othreloth spoke forthrightly and confident in his words. Daynil’s pride in the Telvanni was strained, but still there, making her more than upset at his words. But, she bit her tongue and nodded.

 

“Ha, well, what can you do,” she spoke awkwardly, “Regardless, I am happy that my presence won’t invoke competition. But, I’m also interested in that wizard you spoke of, the relic. There’s a Telvanni wizard on the island?”

 

Othreloth scoffed and shook his head. 

 

“I won’t speak of that old fool. Master Wizard, blah, blah, what good were they during the Red Year? What did he do to even be able to live here? Hmph, some people work hard, and others don’t. That’s all I’m saying on the matter.” The man stopped and cast a look at the alcove in which the shrines were located. Shaking his head, he fished around in his pockets and pulled out a key. He placed it gently in front of Daynil and nodded his head towards the exit of the room. 

 

“This is the key to the basement. There’s a bed with some simple clothes folded on it. While you work for me, that’s yours,” Daynil took the key and nodded, “For now, I’ll clean this mess. I’ll give you two days to recover and then prepare to work hard. Very hard. Now, off you go.” 

 

Othreloth stood up and walked over to the shrines where sounds of him cleaning could be heard. Daynil remained seated for a moment. 

 

This was how she needed to live now. No longer was she the Nerevarine, or the saviour of her people, or even a general like she so willingly joked about. She was a poor, homeless Dunmer woman living in a world that had left her behind and continued to mock her with pale imitations of what was.

 

Perhaps she was too stuck in the past to recognise what remained, but how could she not? Her life was filled with looking backwards and re-evaluating and analysing. There was no time to wait for everyone else to catch up, to finally understand what had taken 1000 years to comprehend. But she had to move on.

 

Maybe she could look at what stayed. Here at Raven Rock, the buildings changed style but that style remained constant. People still loved and celebrated their ancestors, building tombs in their honor. Her people were still here, still wandering the land that was rightfully theirs. 

 

She thought that coming to Vvardenfell 200 years ago already made her an artifact being a vampire of 990 years or so, but now? She was beyond old, she was ancient. What use did Tamriel have for another relic? Why was she required for another prophecy? They’re not meant to stack up on one person. Daynil sighed and began to walk slowly towards the basement. 

 

She couldn’t change anything, least of all destiny. 

 

But to accept it all certainly made for a lonely existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided that I will try to update every Monday/Tuesday! Thanks for reading and I look forward to the next chapters^^


	3. Deadric Premonitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things never change, with you things always change, and with time you will learn to accept it.[1]

_**New Sheoth, Shivering Isles 4E 199** _

 

Music rumbled from the palace room, brilliant swirls of colours flying across the ceiling with gushing laughter and jovial music flowing through the halls. Despite the duality of the room, Dementia and Manic seemed to mix and twist with each other as they celebrated. 

 

Trumpets swelled with rhythm, their sound fat with the tune of festivity. Even the Dark Seducers and Golden Saints mingled in the delights, dancing, drinking, and singing along to rowdy and naughty songs.

 

From his throne, the Mad God Sheogorath smiled, cackling at the bright and vibrant state of his throne. Revelry of all kinds were being performed in front of the Daedra and he just couldn’t be happier. Overcome with joy, he stood up, throwing his staff backwards and raising a glass of Felldew high in the air. As the clatter of the staff was heard, Sheogorath let out a larger than life laugh. 

 

“My people!” he yowled, ecstasy running through his veins, “I’m so impressed with the music!” The dancers followed his laughter and raised their hands in the air to emulate his own action. Haskill, his manservant, stood simply by the throne and watched the Daedra. “Now all we need is a little entertainment!” Sheogorath snapped his fingers at Haskill, the man sighing deeply.

 

“Yes, my Lord. How--” Haskill was summoned in front of Sheogorath despite being just behind a few seconds prior.

 

“Oh, how I love this!!” Sheogorath doubled over in laughter, and then,summoned him again. Onlookers couldn’t help but laugh, they too finding the spectacle of Haskill’s continued summoning to be utterly hilarious. 

 

After a few more times of summoning the manservant, Sheogorath stopped, his mood changing drastically. 

 

Someone was in the Isles, and they were definitely not invited to his Cheese party. Noticing the change in his mood, the guests began to hush; whispers floating around the room like little doubts. Paranoia seeped into Sheogorath’s mind, the ticking of clocks and whispers of betrayed men in his ear. 

 

This was not good.

 

With one solid movement, the guests disappeared from the room. The decorations and food items slowly dissipating as the walls darkened and tapestries twisted into horrific faces. A smoke appeared from behind Sheogorath, clinging to his once colourful regalia and sucking away the colour. In its wake, foreboding black created faces upon the fabric, weaving in mistrust, betrayal, and instability. 

 

The staff that he had thrown appeared in his fingers, the wood twisted and black with small clusters of mushrooms growing from tiny cracks. The brown eye that swiveled and turned, looked around suspiciously. As an extension of his power, it too felt the intrusion.

 

Who was it? Who wanted to have their entrails like a necklace? Teeth like rattles for wee babes? Hmm?

 

“My Lord, shall I prepare for your guest?” Haskill’s voice sparked a flash of anger in the Daedra, but it was not aimed at the man, it was aimed at the woman walking through his Isles. 

 

“No,” he sat on his throne, feeling his hands tapping to an unknown rhythm, “No, she knows that I know she’s here. She’s provoking me, making fun of me. I don’t like it when she makes fun of me. Pisses me right off!” The god’s shout shook the palace, his guards stiffening with worry. He ignored it.

 

They should be.

 

After the ground calmed, Sheogorath’s eyes were trained on the door. He could bring her to him, but he knew she would enjoy that; finding his effort to be particularly amusing. No, no, he’d let ‘fate’ determine whether she walks to the palace, or if unfortunate Grummites spat on her. 

 

He’d like that.

 

He’d like that a lot actually.

 

As he was imagining the same scenario, a manifestation of black haze emerged before him. As the haze gained form, 8 long limbs protruded from the centre, reaching for the edges of the building. A head, crested with an elongated headpiece where diamonds, onyx, and obsidian hung to reflect into viewers’ eyes. Pallor skin shone out from the pitch black nature of the woman’s attire and brilliant golden eyes stared into his own with a desire to taunt. Her large form towered over the others in the room, asserting her standing within those present.

 

“We have something to talk about, Mad God,” she raised a hand to her lips, smirking at him, “It’s hurt my feelings, you know. How you avoid me and ‘forget’ about our…. discussions.” Sheogorath only scoffed and shrugged.

 

“How is that worth interrupting my parties, Mephala,” he narrowed his eyes, “especially MY parties. Even more especially, MY parties celebrating CHEESE.” 

 

“It infuriates me, truly it does, to know you don’t care,” Mephala glared at Sheogorath, “about our little problem.” Mephala walked slowly towards the Mad God, assuming a smaller form with each step. As she came closer, the surroundings began to dull and twist. 

 

“You watch it, Webspinner, this is my place. You have your realm filled with spider wenches, leave mine alone,” Sheogorath nodded towards Haskill and the man bowed, leaving the room. “But, I know what you’re talking about. I’ve been meaning to say something anyway but, you know, I was busy.” Mephala laughed, biting her lip and running a finger down Sheogorath’s arm. 

 

“Oh, come on. I’m listening,” she chuckled and leaned into his ear, “What have you been meaning to tell me?” Haskill reappeared in the room with a parchment of paper, yellowed and frayed with a red ribbon tying it up on a silver platter. The manservant bowed low, raising the platter high for Sheogorath to take the parchment. Looking at Mephala, he smiled and whispered into her own ear.

 

“I could care less about what you call ‘our little problem’,” Sheogorath smirked. The Deadra’s demeanour changed, darkness seeping into the ground that she was standing on, her face twisting into more monstrous features as anger took over her. Mephala stood back angrily, throwing her hands up in frustration and swearing in tongues that hurt and prodded at the more humane parts of the god.

 

“You could care less? You pushed me into doing something about it and now you ‘could care less’! Azura’s protege is walking again, ready to fulfill another prophecy meant for someone else and you couldn’t care?!” Mephala shouted, her frustration taking form as a growing black up her arms that spiked and churned with each anger-filled word.

 

“I’d rather ask Malacath for fashion advice. The blemish in your domain means nothing for me, I helped the first time. Now, I don’t want to.”

 

“I break the string and then she recreates and plucks at her own whim, and you’re saying this doesn’t concern you? What’s happening is literal madness and you’re throwing parties about cheese,” she let out a noise between a growl and a hiss, “I thought that when you offered to help me the first time, you saw some more sense than your previous incarnation. I see that you are just as stupid.” Mephala growled lowly, raising her hands and allowing the darkness that she brought with her to come back and cover her body. Sheogorath, Haskill, and his guards watched as the Daedric prince of Fate and Deception disappeared from the hall. 

 

Sheogorath sighed as he felt the presence leave the Isles and lazily turned his head to look at the parchment in his hand. 

 

His previous incarnation was quite specific on how to deal with the other Daedric princes, the knowledge all recorded down into small pieces of parchment, much to Haskill’s dismay. This was certainly useful in the time that Sheogorath, being a fairly new incarnation, interacted with his brethren. So this time, he opted to ignore his own instructions and continue without a care. 

 

He untied the ribbon and slowly opened the paper to reveal a small message written in smooth, cursive, ink.

 

‘Mephala; Bit of a bitch, I could care less.’

 

He leaned back in his throne, happy with his choices. Haskill walked in front of the Daedra and bowed, the platter in his hands disappearing as he did so. 

 

“My Lord, shall I go get Molag Bal’s one?” he asked. Sheogorath chuckled loudly, the walls of the palace reverting back to their more vibrant state as his mind balanced between Mania and Dementia. 

 

“No, not now. I’m a little interested in watching how Azura Junior is going. Afterall, we were besties once!” Sheogorath threw his head back in laughter.

 

\----------

 

_**Raven Rock, Solstheim 4E 199** _

The sun hung high in the air, heat rolling over in waves over the town as the people worked. Pails of water were seated by every resident working outside, each accompanied by a fan or dirty cloth meant to wipe the sweat of hard work and heat. 

 

Loud chatter could be heard following the sound of water moving to and fro through the streets. Despite the excruciating heat, business was still as prolific as ever (as much as it could be on Solstheim), the streets of Raven Rock crowded and busy. Two figures made their way through the town gripping red cloth and pails of water in each hand. Mumbling small apologies, the taller of the two swore.

 

“Damn it, Daynil, we should’ve gone earlier,” the Dunmer man hissed at the woman following close behind, “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you.” Daynil scoffed, tightening her grip on the pails and yelping as she nearly bumped into someone. 

 

“I didn’t think it would be so busy,” Daynil reasoned, “Isn’t Raven Rock meant to be some kind of, I don’t know, ‘desolate hellhole’?” A Redoran guard turned at her comment, frowning intensely. Daynil jerked her head towards the man complaining before. “His words, not mine.” The guard huffed and the two were on their way once again.

 

“Othreloth is going to blow his beard off! And all because you wanted to flirt with Ulkos--” the man winced as Daynil kicked his behind.

 

“Watch it, Galdrus. Ulkos saved my life,” she said, “I want to repay him.” Galdrus scoffed as he navigated the crowd. 

 

“Well, it doesn’t matter why now. Othreloth is still going to kill us.” 

 

Daynil watched as the crowd began to thin out, the stalls lacking in number and the end of the docks becoming visible once more. Galdrus, Elder Othreloth’s young apprentice, walked briskly through the dissipating crowd and towards the stairs of the temple. The ash of the path was disturbed by his strides and kicked up in the air causing Daynil to cough sharply.

 

She bit her tongue to avoid complaining, her mind numb with annoyances and eyes burning with ash. If there was more time to complain about Galdrus, she would take the opportunity to, but the apprentice wasn’t lying; Othreloth was indeed waiting.

 

It had been about two months since Daynil returned from Akavir and awoke in front of the docks, leaving her to seek work from Elder Othreloth, a priest at Raven Rock’s temple. The experience of regaining her strength was difficult, Daynil forcing herself to adopt a training regime on top of the required chores that Othreloth gave her. Her regained muscle helped greatly to the list of chores Othreloth gave that varied from cleaning and gathering groceries to killing pesky bandits and hunting local wildlife for food. 

 

Daynil felt almost like she was reborn with more opportunities and knowledge. It gave her comfort to know that all her abilities were not forgotten, just unused and not as effective as they were when she was in her ‘prime’. 

 

Regardless, she would have to contemplate her progress some other time; she had a job to get back to.

 

Daynil followed Galdrus through the temple halls, heading into the prayer rooms where Othreloth was conducting the monthly cleansing. When they reached the Elder, Galdrus nudged Daynil to say something. 

 

‘It’s your fault’ he mouthed at the woman. Her lips thinned with displeasure and she nodded angrily. Placing the pails down, she rubbed her hands together and took a step closer to Othreloth’s kneeling form.

 

“Um, muthsera? Galdrus and I have returned from collecting the pails, like you asked.” Othreloth shifted from his position but other than that, did not move in any way that suggested he acknowledged them. Questioningly, Galdrus stepped forward also and cleared his throat.

 

“Master? We’ve completed the task as you’ve requested. Is there--” 

 

“Didn’t I teach you better than to interrupt a person in prayer?” Othreloth’s voice was harsh and scolding, Galdrus clenching his jaw as he repressed his own anger. Daynil watched with little pity, still massaging the feeling back into her calloused hands. 

 

“By the Ancestors boy, you think you’d use your head for something other than frustrating me,” Othreloth stood up slowly from his kneeling position and turned towards the pair. Daynil dipped her head in respect, hoping her actions would curry a lesser punishment. She wouldn’t deny she was great at sucking up. 

 

Othreloth ignored them both, walking out of the prayer area and towards the larger room where a pair of chairs stood with a table between them. The stairs to the lower regions of the temple were just behind and boxes were stacked neatly besides the furniture. 

 

“Galdrus, leave us.” Galdrus nodded his head and made his way down towards the basement, leaving Daynil behind. 

 

The atmosphere between them seemed tense, almost solemn. In the dim light of the candles that stuck close to the walls, Daynil could see the wrinkled frown of the Elder; how he lifted up a weary hand to his chin and pondered a difficult thought. 

 

Daynil walked over to the man and gestured to the wooden chairs beside him.

 

“It seems we have something to talk about.” Othreloth paused for a moment before chuckling softly and sitting down. He got himself comfortable before gesturing to the other chair.

 

“You were the perceptive one. Come, sit,” Daynil followed his example and sat, “we do indeed have something to talk about.” Worry clogged her stomach and anxiety made it’s way to her throat where it choked the breath out of her. In spite of it, she smiled, trying to ease herself.

 

“What is it?” she asked politely. Othreloth placed his hands on the table, staring at and examining them. Daynil watched, waiting for something to show in his actions.

 

“Azura, she of the Crimson Gate, Queen of Dawn and Dusk. You told me she was your matron, no?” The topic surprised Daynil but she didn’t protest.

 

“I did. She is indeed.”

 

“How do you know?” The question  threw Daynil off guard, her eyes widening as her brain racked her thoughts for a response. Instead of scolding her, Othreloth laughed bitterly.

 

“No one can answer a question like that because there is simply no way to know,” he drew his sight away from his hands and looked Daynil straight in the eyes, “but I believe you. Azura, in all the years I’ve been a priest, been alive for that matter, she has never spoken to me or shown me a sign of her acknowledgement. Until last night.” Othreloth shook his head, tapping his fingers on the table. 

 

Daynil felt sorrow for the man. After witnessing his actions and observing him in his prayers, she had realised an important truth about him; he wanted to see proof in all. He wanted to see used boxes stacked up against the temple before they were shipped away, he wanted to write down the amount of times someone entered the temple, he wanted to see that what he was doing was approved by Azura. His faith was certainly unshakeable but bitterness swells in the best of all. 

 

She looked down, unable to meet his gaze for much longer.

 

“It was raining, the sea was churning and I could see Vvardenfell again. Without ash, and fire, and ruins; I saw it. And just as I passed the horizon, ready to wake, She came to me,” a wistful look was in his eyes while Daynil’s heart was thumping against her ribcage, “and she spoke to me. She told me ‘Solstheim has no home for those with my duty, seek out Skyrim. Shimsun, I watch you,’. And as she disappeared, I woke with tears in my eyes.” He looked down. Slowly he reached to his chest and clenched his heart.

 

Daynil nodded softly, understanding his words. Solstheim was not the place to be it seems. Skyrim held the answers, it always did. There was so many things she left behind in the frozen wasteland; whispers of her wrongdoings, massive bounties, and her life as a mortal. She would return to Skyrim, as Azura commanded.

 

“She called me by name, Shimsun, my father’s name,” he whispered, “she recognised me.” Daynil slowly stood from the chair. Walking over to Othreloth, she placed a hand on his shoulder and looked towards the door. 

 

“It is time for me to leave you, Elder. Azura has spoken.” The man looked up at Daynil, shaking his head as he frowned.

 

“You have no duty to Azura besides worship, why would you go?”

 

“Azura told you that her duty-bound must seek Skyrim,” she squeezed his shoulder in comfort, “thus, I must go.” 

 

The two stayed in silence, allowing the quiet smother them. Their thoughts travelled, Othreloth’s to the vision Azura had given him and Daynil to the duty that lay ahead.

 

Trouble laid ahead, it was inevitable. Dark shadows loomed over the province, stirs of ancient and deadly power causing dreams to pound into Daynil’s head with gold and red. Closing her eyes, she could see Dagoth Ur’s dying face, her weeping mourning for a man she had never met but spent lifetimes with. Yes, this was a reminder that she fulfilled her prophecy but not without losing something. Now, Daynil had only to wonder what it was that she would be losing. 

 

She could run, she had run before. Cyrodiil allowed her to fester as a conman and her own arrogance as a vampire gave her an edge over the gods. As long as blood kept running, Daynil never needed to fulfill any kind of prophecy. Of course it was different when she cured herself. She finally moved with her people, aging as they did, living as they did. 

 

Until Corprus. 

 

She repressed the thought of the virus running through her veins, the images of marred flesh being cut of her body in order to push back the illness, the clusters of scars that still remained all over her body as a result. Even then, destiny had a foul way of denying old age.

 

Even the trip to Akavir was just running, cowardice. And look where that left her. 

 

A hero forgotten by history.

 

Yes, she would go to Skyrim and then she would complete the prophecy, no matter how difficult. It was lucky that this time she had nothing left to lose. All remnants of her time as Nerevar were dead, and as far as she knew, her brother and the Champion were also lost to her. Dead.

 

Daynil breathed in calmly, lifting her hand from the man’s shoulder. Othreloth turned to face her from his position on the chair, pleading for some kind of explanation. 

 

“How?” he said quietly.

 

“I don’t know,” Daynil spoke truthfully, “I just don’t know. I have never forgotten my part to play; I just thought that no one needed me anymore.” Looking away from Othreloth, she turned to face the exit and began to walk slowly towards it. “I have enough money to sail to Skyrim, so don’t worry about me. Tell Galdrus and Ulkos that I send my regards.” 

 

The woman left the temple with a soft bang of the wooden doors. Othreloth’s gaze lingered there for a moment before looking down at the table and closing his eyes.

 

He could see the ash of his home in the wilderness swirling in the wind that came from the sea and how it sounded soft against the cries of the Silt Striders. He was back to being a child, playing with rocks and sands in the solid walls of his home, still unruined by the lava and dust of the Red Mountain. 

 

The image turned violent, reflecting the time when his family fled their camp to escape the Red Tower’s rage. He saw how he fell behind, trying to reclaim a fallen token of his family, of his lost Urshilaku. 

 

And then he saw them, the figure who saved them all. Othreloth felt the person grabbing him and sprinting towards the safety of the shell that his family carried to protect themselves from the ash. He could barely see the blood seeping through the figures glass armor, though now he could see with crystal clarity; the drops flying in the wind, warm against his skin. 

 

He remembered the soft mumbles of ‘please be safe’ from the figure who only clenched him tighter as both of their vision’s blurred. The figure pressed on through the ash to reach the rest of his family, that cried with relief to see their son, and then leaded them to the safety of the shore. 

 

He looked up and saw the figure smiling at him, despite all the pain they were in.

 

He looked up and saw the ring of legend, the ring that united the Moon-and-Star.

 

He looked up and saw the Nerevarine.

 

He looked up and saw Daynil Ravethi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]Courtesy of QuidProQuo via GaStuSage on NexusMods
> 
> I have to say thank you all for reading this! I really appreciate you guys taking the time to read my stuff :D I look forward to writing more ^^


	4. No Praise For Dunmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today you suddenly realized the life you've been living, the punishment your body has taken -- there are limits to what the body can do, and perhaps you have reached them. You've wondered what it is like to grow old. Well, now you know.

_**4E 199 Windhelm Docks, Skyrim** _

The wooden bones of the ship groaned and whined with the barren cold of Skyrim. Battering snow and shivering winds seeped through the ship and drew away the presence of warmth within. On the deck, workers began to move the crates of supplies and resources under the watchful eye of Gjalund Salt-Sage.

 

He hadn’t been anticipating another journey, especially with the Sea of Ghosts’ whisperings of danger and death. The workers themselves were not keen to begin their work and sail from the warm albeit bitter land of Solstheim to Skyrim but still, they did so.

 

It was their home after all.

 

Yes, Gjalund remembered growing up in the tall and dark walls of Windhelm with its bitter ice and salty cold. He would say that he was glad to return but, that was far from the truth.

 

Sighing, he turned his attention to the city. After his brother was killed, Windhelm held no value to him.

 

That day was etched in his mind; the sight of his brother sprawled on the ground, limbs missing and body cruelly bleeding upon the floor and staining his eyes. Gjalund felt his effort drain, all the work he had done to make sure his little brother, Bjorn, would be safe. But no, a murderer took away that future, any future that might’ve been the destiny for Bjorn Salt-Sage.

 

How could he stay in the city, knowing that the guard could never find who the murderer was? Knowing that his little brother’s fiance was next to die?

 

‘Ah, but enough thinking,’ he thought bitterly.

 

Gjalund knew that his passengers were awake, a few of them already leaving the ship and heading into the confines of the city. The rest, however, perhaps only one or two, were sitting on the deck playing cards. A large, burly Nord man was smirking as he placed down a single pair and moved some septims into his pocket. He recognised his partner as the Dunmer woman he made small talk with as they left Solstheim.

 

She was interesting in the fact that she didn’t quite know what waited for her in Skyrim but she knew that something needed to be done. Insanity or sense of blind purpose; Gjalund couldn’t decide which suited the elf more.

 

As he looked closer, he noticed that despite losing (quite badly, it seemed), she was laughing and encouraging more. Gjalund looked towards his workers.

 

They were nearly done with the supplies and even now some were chatting amongst themselves. When they noticed he was watching, Gjalund waved a hand and nodded, signaling that they could leave and take a break. With that, they laughed and moved towards the city.

 

Gjalund himself walked over to the pair, wanting to distract himself from the dark memory he had thought on before.

 

“Oh come on, Dunmer! That was not a very nice thing to say!” the Nord bellowed, laughing as he did so. The woman smirked and shrugged.

 

“I’m just saying, Jorunn, I don’t think skeevers are proper company in be--” The woman was cut off by the Nord’s sudden rise.

 

Gjalund stopped at the action. The Nord, Jorunn, took a step towards the captain and held out a hand.

 

“Ah, Captain Salt-Sage, how do you do?” Jorunn’s booming and jovial voice invited Gjalund to take his hand and shake firmly.

 

“Fine. Good grip, man,” Gjalund said, meeting Jorunn’s gaze. The Nord laughed and then gestured to the woman who remained seated.

 

“Come on, Daynil, give the man some respect!” He laughed and Daynil chuckled.

 

“We’ve met, haven’t we Captain?” The red of her eyes glinted with playfulness as she nodded her head slightly. For some reason, he only felt nervous. Insanity seemed a more likely cause for her trip it appeared.

 

“Uh, yes, we talked when we were still in Solstheim,” Gjalund nodded, looking at Jorunn and then to Daynil. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the woman, she was nice enough, it was just that she made him feel uncomfortable like she could predict his movements.

 

It was unsettling. He began to have second thoughts about approaching the pair.

 

She gestured to the barrel beside the table where they were playing a game of some sort.

 

“Come Captain, join us for a game? Jorunn’s been kicking my ass and I need some support,” she chuckled. Watching as the Captain began to shake his head, she noticed Jorunn chortling and putting a hand the other man’s shoulder.

 

“Now, now, Captain, you’re on break, aren’t you? I promise we won’t bite,” Jorunn cast a look towards Daynil and then back to Gjalund, “Well, I promise I won’t.” Reluctantly, Gjalund walked around the table and sat down on the barrel that Daynil gestured to. Jorunn followed suit.

 

“Now, where were we? Oh yes, I was winning,” Jorunn picked up his cards. The others also picked up their cards and began to play.

 

\-----

 

The sun began to retreat down the horizon as Daynil stood up and shouted with glee while her two partners laughed. Bottles of mead and brandy surrounded the trio with Jorunn well and truly drunk, Gjalund tipsy, and Daynil beyond sober.

 

“I beat him! All 50 septims, mine!” She cackled.

 

Daynil knew she shouldn’t have drunk anything, especially with such a low tolerance for alcohol, but she couldn’t help it when Jorunn pulled out a casket. His own ‘collection’ he called it. It was a while since Daynil had any kind of revelry with others, her duties on Solstheim strictly all work and no play.

 

She couldn't say she missed it if she was being frank.

 

Jorunn giggled as Daynil pushed her 50 septims into her purse and then placing a hand on her stomach with a grand sweeping gesture.

 

“This elf will be feasting tonight!” she laughed. Jorunn stood up to congratulate her but as soon as he put weight on his leg, he fell onto the deck. His accident was followed by bouts of loud laughter and the sound of many glass bottles bumping into each other.

 

Daynil walked over to Jorunn shakily and placed a hand on his back.

 

“You awake?” she questioned. After a moment of silence, a heavy snore erupted from the unconscious body of Jorunn. “Wake up, Draugr-kisser! You’ve got to take me to cornerclub.” After shaking him a few more times, she gave up on the man and sat back down again, sighing.

 

“He’s meant to take you to the cornerclub?” The voice of Gjalund caused the woman to turn her head towards the captain and nod.

 

“Yeah,” she slurred slightly, “Y’see, Jorunn here said that ‘cause I’m a Dunme-wait, no, you Nords call us Dark Elves, yeah. Well, yeah, since I’m a Dark Elf, it’s safer for me to stay in the cornerclub, in the Grey Quarter. Yeah.”

 

Daynil barely remembered the discussion where she made such plans but it held some grip in her mind because she remembered thinking about her misplaced inventory. All her exquisite and expensive armors, ingredients, scrolls, potions, weapons, high-class swords, even Wraithguard, Keening, and Sunder were left in her tower before the Akaviri expedition. ‘I want to keep it safe’ Eddie, her Mouth on the Telvanni Council said, ‘I want it to stay here, where I can look after it’.

 

Bah! And now here she was, weaponless and poorer than the skeevers in Neloth’s asshole.

 

She shook her head and distracted herself from the thought; focussing on it would cause more longing for things she could no longer retrieve. Daynil looked at Gjalund intently, waiting for him to say something in response to her words.

 

She guessed he noticed because he coughed slightly and looked a tad bit embarrassed.

 

“Uh, well, I don’t mind taking you there myself,” he said, gesturing to the city, “I know that this city doesn’t take too kindly to you Dar-- Dunmer and it really isn’t safe at night.” He looked awkwardly to the side, scratching the back of his head and tapping his foot slightly.

 

Daynil was taken aback by the offer; she had learned that such generosity was never simply given. Perhaps he was drunker than she thought. Regardless, if his words were true, then it would be better to accept his offer.

 

“I would like that,” she said, “you’re very kind to offer, Captain.” She watched as Gjalund stood up and moved over to her. Slowly she stood up, using the table as her crutch. “And of Jorunn? Are we gonna leave him?” she slurred. Gjalund looked at the burly Nord and laughed lightly.

 

“He’ll be fine. My crew knows when to leave a drunk alone.” Daynil nodded and continued her quest to stand. For a little while, the ground swayed at her feet, the colors of the land almost tinged with purple as the excessive drinking squeezed out its remaining influence on her. Standing still, she waited for the world to settle before picking up her knapsack filled with her belongings and looking at Gjalund.

 

As she turned to let Gjalund know she was ready, she noticed that his hand was out, as if inviting her to grab it. She raised an eyebrow and he flustered.

 

“You’re more than a bit drunk, Lady Daynil. I didn’t want you to fall,” he quickly said, “you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m not going to force you.”

 

Once again, she was surprised by his kindness. Daynil would not deny that the thought that Gjalund wanted to bed her crossed her mind, but she admitted quietly that it was because no other person had given her kindness for free. Even with Othreloth, she had to work in exchange. It was simply how the world worked.

 

So Daynil concluded it was the alcohol and she left it at that. She placed her hands on his arm and held onto him, already noticing the lack of balance on her feet. Daynil only hoped that he wouldn’t trip too.

 

It was awkward at first, walking together off the boat and towards the gates that led to the city. In the brisk cold, it was easy to focus on the shivering limbs and encroaching frostbite, but with the warmth of one another, it was glaringly obvious that the silence the pair shared was anything less than embarrassing. So when Gjalund spoke first, she was utterly relieved.

 

“Why stay at Windhelm? I would’ve thought that you’d head to Solitude or somewhat. Every tourist usually does,” he said. Daynil glanced at the man before focussing on the flickering light of the torch hanging on a sonce in front of them.

 

“That’s because I’m no tourist,” she sounded surprisingly calm (perhaps the awkwardness sobered her up a little), “I used to live near Riverwood with my brother. I was hoping to stay in Windhelm for a little while to get used to the Skyrim cold.” Gjalund nodded in recollection and hummed a small acknowledgment.

 

“Ah, that makes some sense as to why you’d come here.” Gjalund paused.

 

“What did you and your brother do?” he asked.

 

“We were farmers,” she shrugged as best she could, “we worked mainly with lettuce; it doesn’t mind the cold, you see. Nobody really bothered us either because of Bleak Falls Barrow, that old ruin the locals were scared of.” Gjalund cocked his head slightly in curiosity.

 

“Did you live near Bleak Falls Barrow?”

 

“Ha, pretty much next to it. At first, we struggled with the bandits and the cold, but my brother and I were pretty skilled in, ya know, getting rid of ‘em.”

 

“I see,” Gjalund nodded, “I can tell you’re a hardy sort. To be honest with you, I never pegged you to have any siblings; you seem more like a lone wolf type.” Daynil nodded. Most people would believe that too.

 

“You wouldn’t be the first to think so,” Daynil cast her eyes down. “To be accurate, he was actually my twin brother. We never really knew who was older so we just assumed that he was. He always acted like it anyway.” Ridan, she had almost banned her tongue from saying his name if not for her overwhelming guilt. After hundreds of years of anger and bitterness, they had found each other on the ship to Akavir and reconciled, only for her to leave him for dead on a continent so far away.

 

“Where is he now, if I may ask?” There was a hint of sadness in Gjalund’s voice, one laced with his own concoction of guilt.

 

“He’s dead.” A momentary tension held the two in place. Gjalund was reminded so much of his Bjorn who died within the very halls they were walking towards and Daynil was filled with guilt over the death of her Ridan, to whom she never got to say a proper apology.

 

The pair continued to walk in silence until they entered the city.

 

Inside was just as desolate as the outside beside the huge pots of raging fires visible by what seemed to be an inn. Snow and ice seemed a permanent companion to the stones of the city with engravings of dragons and warriors forever encompassed by the clear cold.

 

Walking into the city, they heard a man stumbling drunk through the alleys towards what Daynil assumed to be the Grey Quarter Jorunn had mentioned.

 

Gjalund wasn’t sure who it was after all he hadn’t been inside the city in so long, but it wasn’t hard to guess what the man was doing there.

 

“Go back to Morrowind, Dark Elf maggots! You're not welcome here!” the man shouted one last time before stumbling forwards toward the pair. As he looked up to apologise, his mouth morphed into a sneer and he stepped back, pointing a finger accusingly towards Daynil.

 

“Of course, I can’t forget the harlots! Stealing Nord hearts to feed your daedra spawn!” he snarled, shaking his hand in a fist. Daynil stepped forward, finding a snarl in her own voice as he insulted her people.

 

Alas, she was drunk and as quickly as she found her resolve to fight the man, her knees buckled and she felt her body falling. Luckily Gjalund helped her up but the man just laughed.

 

“Ha, that’s what all you grey-skins should do,” he leaned forward a little, smirking evilly, “you should kneel.” Daynil was about to say something but she felt the cold force of spit meeting her cheek and the laughter of the man echoing back at her as he walked away. She felt Gjalund move to say something back at him but he stopped and looked at her.

 

“You alright?” He spoke softly. A warm hand on her back almost made her feel better about what just transpired.

 

Almost.

 

Was this how the Dunmer were treated now? Like slaves and mongrels, mutts living in the feces of their betters? Did she fight for this? Azura guide her because she felt an immeasurable amount of anger that was only equaled by her crushing weight of guilt and regret.

 

No, she wasn’t alright.

 

Shaking her head, Daynil gripped his arm and helped herself up.

 

“Let’s just get to the cornerclub. I’ll be a lot happier with some food in my belly.” Her voice was sullen. Her heart clenched as the realisation dawned on her that once, she could have beheaded the man with a single hum of Keening, even drunk.

 

What had happened to her power? This useless feeling made Azura’s task seem impossible despite Daynil’s earnest desires to remain loyal and not repeat her mistakes. She had gone too far to suffer now at the hands of someone who had no idea what her people had to go through to get here.

 

She wiped her face, ridding it of shame.

 

The walk to the building felt brief. The tattered banners and rundown buildings all blurred together as Daynil pondered whether or not she could complete the task demanded of her. Gjalund was also silent beside his small goodbye, perhaps feeling shame, or guilt, or a nasty mixture of both.

 

Sighing, Daynil turned slowly towards the door of the cornerclub and entered into the warmth of the main room. The light was low and the inside seemed barren spare the few tables and chairs littered about.

 

A solitary figure stood by the counter, meticulously cleaning a worn mug with a small cloth that seemed to have been cut off from a larger source. Noticing the woman, the man set the mug down and lit another lantern on the wooden counter in front of him.

 

“Welcome sister, enjoy yourself.” Daynil walked over to the counter, careful to not fall over. Although she could feel herself getting a grip on the alcohol, she could still see the world tilt a little.

 

She sat down on one of the wooden stools and placed her hands on the counter.

 

“What can I interest you in? Food? Drink?” The barkeep spoke, gesturing to the shelf behind him. It was mostly empty, like most of cornerclub it seemed, but an apple pie caught her eye.

 

“One of those pies would do me good, muthsera. How much would it cost me?” The man gently placed the pie on a plate and pushed it toward her.

 

“Five septims, serjo. Would you like a drink too?” Daynil shook her head and pulled out five septims from her purse.

 

“Here you go,” the man took the coins, “I’ll lay off the drinking for now. I just had quite a few.” Daynil wanted to chuckle but she only felt a despondent sadness in her chest. The man in front of her nodded, accepting of her response.

 

“The name’s Ambarys. What’s yours?” It was quick to the point and simple to understand. Daynil decided that she liked this man already.

 

“Good evening Ambarys. My name is Daynil Ravethi.” Ambarys returned to cleaning his mugs as he nodded in acknowledgment.

 

“Hmm, it’s good to see another Dunmer, even in this hellhole. You’re from Solstheim, aren’t you?”

 

Daynil nodded as she took a bite of the apple pie in front of her. She chewed for a moment, savouring the taste, before swallowing.

 

“I travelled from there, yes. There’s not a lot there now, especially with all the ash and bandits.” Ambarys let out a small, jovial hum at her remark, shaking his head a little.

 

“You’ll find that your situation hasn’t changed much. Skyrim’s pretty much snow and bandits.”

 

“Plus the added bonus of a very ‘warm’ welcoming committee.” Daynil scowled. Ambarys laughed and placed his mug down on the counter before getting a new one to clean. “These Nords aren’t very good at being nice, are they?”

 

“I knew that there was something I liked about you,” he said, “tell me, what’s brought you to Skyrim? I know for a fact this is not the first choice for many of our people.”

 

Daynil stopped for a moment and thought about her answer.

 

“I’ve got some business here,” she answered carefully, “Although, I would much prefer to be home.”

 

“Missing Solstheim are you? I feel the same for Morrowind,” Ambarys said thoughtfully. It was also true for Daynil. She missed the land of Vvardenfell and how intimately she knew it. Every hill and crevice she had walked on, seeking adventure and sating her own curiosity. There wasn’t a curve she hadn’t touched or a person she hadn’t tried to reach. Even now, she could feel the wind and ash of the Molag Amur region pressing against her back and the refreshing smell of water rolling off Suran. The animals, just as varied as the people themselves, only added to her amazement; gentle Silt Striders and their echoing cry, Durzogs and Gaurs wandering the lands for some food and Nyx Hounds, a constant shadow to her journeys.

 

She added it to the list of things she missed dearly.

 

“When did you leave Morrowind?” she asked, hopeful of the fact that conversation would distract her thoughts for some time.

 

“During the Red Year. You look a bit young to remember the whole thing but,” he shrugged before smiling teasingly, “I’d be willing to admit that you’re older than you look.” Daynil laughed and smiled back, welcoming the coming of light-hearted banter.

 

“My, my, are you guessing at my age?” Daynil smirked.

 

“What, me? By Azura, I could never.” Ambarys joked, the upbeat mood bringing the room some more light. “But still, you’ve probably heard the tales.” Daynil nodded as she brought the pie to her mouth.

 

Oh, she had done a lot more than hear of the tales; she made them.

 

“You could barely breath the air when the Red Mountain first erupted. I fled when I was just a young one with my mother and father from Vivec city,” he stopped and looked into the mug he was cleaning. “Yes, then we came here, to this hellhole. If we had known what kind of treatment was waiting for us here, we would’ve kept walking.”

 

Daynil looked at the man with sympathy but he only shook his head and shrugged.

 

“But, enough of my complaining. You probably want a bed for the night?” Daynil nodded.

 

“You wouldn’t have one, would you?” As she asked the question, Ambarys smirked and chuckled a little.

 

“Normally, I would tell you no,” he began, “but, as luck would have it, Malthyr is out doing a job for me by Hollyfrost Farm. He won’t be back by midday tomorrow so his bed is free up until then. I’ll give you the bed for 5 gold; that’s cheaper than that Nordic mess by the gates.”

 

Always one for taking opportunities where she had found them, Daynil placed 5 septims on the counter and winked towards Ambarys. Happy with her decision, Ambarys stood and walked on the creaky floorboards. He gestured for her to come.

 

“I’ll show you your bed, serjo. If you’ll just follow me.” Daynil stood slowly, the slow groan of the planks echoing in the emptiness of the cornerclub.

 

She felt better after eating something and now fully welcomed the idea of sleep. Ambarys seemed more than happy to oblige.

 

He led her up the thin, wooden stairs, pointing out the places of disrepair so that she might avoid them and welcomed her to what seemed like a makeshift room. Being fairly empty, the room didn’t offer much besides a bed, a desk with a few books upon it, and a few mismatched items of decor. A large antlered deer head sat above the bookshelves against the northern wall and overlooked the bed she presumed she would be sleeping in.

 

Ambarys patted her on the back.

 

“The bed is yours,” he said, “try not to move Malthyr’s stuff too much.” It seems he chose those as his parting words because as Daynil turned to wish him a good night, he was gone.

 

Looking back into the room, she shuffled towards the bed. Sitting down on the wooden frame was more than uncomfortable but it would have to do for now.

 

Daynil opened her knapsack to reveal a change of clothes as well as a dagger, her back-up purse (if her frivolous spending habits taught her anything that would be gone in days), and a few potions of health and magicka. A book also made its way into her bag it seemed.

 

Interested, she grabbed it and read the cover aloud.

 

“2920, Morning Star, volume one,” she raised an eyebrow. Opening the cover allowed for a small parchment to fall out into her lap, forcing her to place the book aside and investigate the note.

 

It was folded up messily, obviously whoever had placed it there didn’t put much thought into the actual note itself. Slowly she opened it and was bemused by its contents.

 

It was from Ulkos.

 

Shrugging, she opened up the note fully and began to read. She skipped his pleasantries of addressing her and all the mumbo-jumbo about her enjoying the trip (quest) to Skyrim (snow-filled cesspool of pain) and went right to the part which explained the gift, or what she presumed was a gift, of the book.

 

“‘Othreloth hates this book so I thought it would be a good read,’” she cracked a smile at his intent, “‘If it’s saucy, be sure to tell me.’ Ugh, he would like Crassius.” Daynil folded the note back up again, picked up the book and placed it into her knapsack with the rest of her belongings. She would read it when she wasn’t so tired.

 

Daynil took the time to change into her normal clothes, opting to leave the clunkiness of her hide armor to a battle and make her sleeping experience something worthwhile.

 

With all her belongings secure and the night growing ever older, Daynil laid on the furs on the bed and began to ponder about her next course of action.

 

She would need a job, that much was obvious. Lasting on the 300 or so septims had been difficult at best and could only grow more harsh with her lack of stable shelter. Daynil had ability in cleaning so she could always apply to be a maid or personal servant but if the drunkard had been any indication, no one wanted a Dunmer in their homes anyway. Working at the docks might not be a decision she would come to regret, but that demanded some kind of lodging, a permanent shelter even and she had neither.

 

Thinking back to the docks, her mind wandered to a particular Nord.

 

Jorunn, drunk as he was now, mentioned something about Skyrim’s constant bandit problem. Perhaps, she could act as a bounty hunter. There would be no need for her to spend too much money and she was always good at killing things so it worked out. Besides, all the loot she would find would be hers.

 

Daynil concluded that this was by far the most intelligent decision she had made since her departure from Akavir. Happy with her plans, she decided that she would smooth the details out with Jorunn tomorrow, perhaps even invite him to work together with her.

 

Gjalund was right in saying she was a lone wolf, but perhaps this was the time to change that.

 

With a smile on her lips and a plan in her mind, Daynil closed her eyes and began to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played skyrim to make sure I keep true to the events but I forgot that playing any tes games make me turn into a hermit. 
> 
> an unproductive hermit
> 
> as always, I appreciate everyone who reads this and I look forward to working on my next chapter ^^


	5. Pragmatic Discourse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were the Greater Beings the masters of the entire world, or did the humbler creatures have the strength to forge their own destinies?  
> \-- ‘Azura and The Box’ by Marobar Sul

Ash storms whipped the trees, shaped the temple, the buildings, _all_. She could hear a motherly but poisoned voice whispering to her of all the madness that lurked within the ticking that echoed below the city. ‘Go there’ she heard and so, she followed.

 

The black that lined the walls hissed with steam and pushed against her face, pounding in the words the Living God had instilled in her. She was looking for death; to bring death and gain favor within a wilted soul.

 

This was the Nerevarine’s chance to reconcile, to come back into Almalexia’s favor and support her nation. Almalexia always remembered the grudges she held, even after centuries of resolution and trust. Daynil knew that there was nothing to forgive, nothing that Nerevar had done to earn grievances, but one must agree to step forward and accept the blame.

 

But still, the Nerevarine wandered through the thickness of the sludge swirling through the City of Clockwork; her dream changed rapidly and drew wistful breaths of normality. She trudged through and watched as all of Sotha Sil’s creations malfunctioned and flopped pathetically over to the side. She had defeated them before so in a dream there was no need to repeat such things.

 

Daynil moved towards the open corridor that swung in front of her but was surprised by none other than Almalexia.

 

The image was getting distorted, it always did before she died, and the world began to sway at her feet. Hopesfire glimmered in Almalexia’s hand but just like Sotha Sil’s creations, she too crumbled.

 

‘I will remain,’ she choked out, gripping the place where Daynil had stabbed her, ‘you cannot… kill… a god...’ A tingle of magic flowed into Daynil’s hand, tendrils licking the air around it and taunting the Living God. Daynil forgot why she wanted Almalexia’s soul but that wasn’t needed anymore. Intent tended to cloud her judgement.

 

With a final blow, Daynil brought Keening down on the woman and swiftly replaced her head with empty air. She felt the magic flow through her body and into the Grand Soul gem she had supplied.

 

It was done.

 

\----

 

_**Windhelm, Skyrim 199 4E** _

Daynil’s heavy footsteps sloshed in the snow of the Windhelm streets, her eyes cast down to avoid the gazes of the locals and other bothersome figures.

 

The day had barely started and yet the snow and harsh winds continued to blow against the hood of her cloak and the cold stone of the buildings. Locals were walking about with heavy cloaks of fur on their shoulders as they continued their daily routines at a moderately warm leisure.

 

For Daynil, it didn't matter how many layers one could put on themselves, it wouldn't be enough to make this city worth living in.

 

Skyrim wasn't at all what she remembered so far. She remembered brilliant skies with vibrant colors dancing amidst the stars, an envy to all who laid eyes upon it. Emerald forests stood out the most against the blanket of white that covered the land, the mountain that she and her brother lived on feeling minuscule when compared to the vastness of the trees.

 

Here in Windhelm, everything was bitter and angry; the cold nipped at every piece of flesh it could, the people threw daggers with their words, weaving a malevolent magic with every curse, slur, and phrase of hatred.

 

Daynil shot a glance towards the exit, only to see a scowling Nord.

 

Ambarys was right when he said that this wasn't the first choice of many Dunmer.

 

Luckily, the line of work that she had set herself up for was one that required travel. After all, bandits didn't stay in one place, did they? Perhaps then she could return to the sights of earlier days.

 

It didn’t help that she had a dream about her time trying to earn Almalexia’s favor. Daynil could still feel the thickness of the sludge that filled the Clockwork city and the ash that beat against her face in the capital of Mournhold. The most vivid image however was Almalexia’s dying face, rasping out ‘you cannot kill a god’. ‘What intoxicating innocence,’ Daynil had mused, fully aware that to any other the situation would be ironic, not bittersweet.

 

She shook her head, trying to push back the dream in some forgotten part of her mind.

 

Exiting the city, Daynil made her way down the stairs towards the docks where she could hear the workings of men and women, all performing some kind of labor for the reward of sweet septims. Fishing poles also stood upright, their success clearly evident by the scrunched up faces of the guards that walked by. Frigid ice climbed the sides of the dock, almost creeping onto the path below if not for the abundance of torches and fire pits.

 

The Dunmer held her nose as she passed the corner and headed towards Gjalund's ship, The Northern Maiden. She hoped that Jorunn would still be there, recovering from a terrifying hangover like she had earlier in the morning.

 

The Nord seemed like an educated person, despite his booming voice and almost moronic ideas. He had a sense of humor that Daynil could appreciate and even relate to at some points, making him a more ideal companion than, well, none at all. Gjalund was definitely someone she wouldn't mind travelling with, but he was too passive and seemed to not like conflict.

 

It wouldn't be kind to invite such a man to join her.

 

As she cast her eyes upon The Northern Maiden, she scanned the deck for any sign of her lumbering friend but to avail. He was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, she walked onto the stone pier and stood by the large ship. Should she call out for Jorunn? No, that would most certainly make the dock workers think she was insane.

 

Daynil elected to ask Gjalund if he had seen Jorunn, or if he left, if he had said where he was going. She took a step onto the wooden plank connecting the pier to the ship and hopped onto the deck. A few workers took a look at her as she walked but quickly returned to their duties, not wishing for their captain to call them out for laziness.

 

Gjalund was talking to a Redguard woman on the stern of the ship by the chairs Daynil and Jorunn had sat on the previous night. He seemed worried about something while the woman tapped her foot impatiently.

 

As Daynil walked closer, she heard snippets of the conversation.

 

"I'm telling you... we shouldn't have this..." Gjalund’s soft voice spoke out, shaking his head. Daynil looked closer at his hand to see a small parcel wrapped in brown leather and secured with some string. The woman seemed to scowl and threw her hands up in anger.

 

"Fine," she said, snatching the parcel and shoving it into a bag that sat slumped on the chair, "I'll find someone else." Gjalund looked like he wanted to say something but only shook his head and bid her farewell.

 

The woman picked up her belongings and walked over to the pier, passing Daynil. As she passed, Daynil swore that the woman looked at her and smiled. A freezing shiver ran down her spine and she watched as the woman disappeared into the crowded docks.

 

When Daynil looked back to Gjalund, she saw him sitting down with his head in his hands. She walked towards him, navigating past the rest of his crew members, and then sat on the chair opposite.

 

"Good morning, Captain," she greeted, almost scaring Gjalund, "oh, I didn't mean to scare you. You alright, friend?" Gjalund looked briefly into her eyes before looking down again. He shuffled in his chair and coughed a little.

 

"Uh, yes, I'm fine," he said, looking at her again. Shooting a glance towards her knapsack and steel sword, Gjalund frowned before pursing his lips and gesturing to the items in questions. "You're all packed up. Leaving soon, are you?" Daynil laughed and placed her hands on the table.

 

"Well, that's the plan," she shrugged, "I've decided to ask Jorunn if we could partner up for some bounty hunting." Gjalund raised an eyebrow before laughing awkwardly. She couldn't help but feel a little worried for the man. "Say, are you feeling okay? I saw that talk with that woman and I can't say she left happy," Daynil chuckled lightly, "she your wife or something?"

 

"Divines, no!" he exasperated, looking at Daynil earnestly. She burst out laughing, resting one of her hands on her knee and another on her stomach. Gjalund only groaned and shook his head as it retreated into his hands once again. "I'm fine, and no, she's not my wife! We just, um, had a disagreement on some cargo."

 

"What kind of cargo? Perhaps I could help?" Daynil inquired, curious about his predicament. Gjalund seemed to be assessing her, perhaps determining her trustworthiness. As if deciding it was alright, he leaned in and beckoned for her to come closer.

 

"Well, the thing is we don't quite know what we're dealing with here," Gjalund whispered, "it's definitely an artifact but I don't remember putting on the ship, so someone must've stolen it. I suspected Priya, that woman I was talking to, but she told me she only knew about it when I told her." Daynil nodded absorbing the information while Gjalund continued. "Priya wants us to sell it to the highest bidder, but I think we should leave it with the mages at the College of Winterhold. Who knows what it could do? I won't be responsible for someone's death. I don't know how you could help, considering that Priya's gone off." Saying this, Gjalund looked off to the docks for a moment before looking back at Daynil again, waiting for her answer.

 

"I think you should leave it with this College, after all, mages typically have more knowledge with these things," Daynil agreed, "about the artifact itself, what does it look like? I've seen a lot of old shit, maybe I know." She found herself smirking at that last part and felt relieved when she saw the glimmer of a smile of Gjalund too.

 

"It's yellow and crystalline in structure. Rounded like," he paused, trying to think of the word, "like a boiled creme treat, you know the one. Have you heard of it?" The only thing that resembled the shape and description was an old variation of a grand soul gem. She used to own the things in bulk before she sold them all for funds. It was strange to hear of the soul gem, especially after the strange dream she had the night before.

 

Daynil nodded.

 

"I think I know what it is."

 

"Really? What it is then?"

 

"I think it's an old soul gem," she explained, "In Vvardenfell, before the Red Year, they used to be everywhere. Now everyone just uses the Mainland stuff. From the description, I think it's the Grand variety." Gjalund looked at her, his jaw slack and eyes wide.

 

"Do these Vvardenfell soul gems also speak?" At this, Daynil paused, confused. Soul gems never spoke, even when a soul was inside. Perhaps it wasn't soul gem after all.

 

Sometimes people made connections where there were none.

 

"Uh, no," she answered briskly, "definitely not. I can't help you there, Gjalund." His shoulders sank as he processed the thought. Daynil bit her lower lip, almost frustrated at her inability to answer.

 

So much for old age's wisdom.

 

"I see, well, still thanks for your help," Gjalund said solemnly, "I truly appreciate it." Daynil smiled and shook her head.

 

"It was no problem," she said, "but I would like to bother you with a question, if I may." Gjalund nodded, signalling for her to continue. "I was wondering, have you actually seen Jorunn?"

 

"To tell you, I think he's at the gates waiting for you," he said. It took some time for her to process what he said. Daynil hadn't let Jorunn know that she wanted to work with him, let alone being a bounty hunter.

 

"Oh," she said, "Well I better not keep him waiting. Thank you Gjalund." She stood up and readied herself for travel. Noticing this, Gjalund also stood up.

 

"It's no problem," he smiled, "I do what I can."

 

"If you still need some help with that artifact, I don't mind lending a hand," Daynil smirked and winked, "You know my name. Send a courier." Gjalund laughed and patted her on the pat gently.

 

"I will. May the wind be on your back."

 

Daynil looked back at him and smiled, acknowledging his farewell. She returned to the stone pier and waved one last time to the Nord for she had a feeling that she might not see him anytime soon. He waved back and then disappeared behind a small pile of crates.

 

The woman remembered Jorunn and quickly began to walk towards the entrance of the city.

 

Thinking about Jorunn, she tried to remember ever telling him that she was interested in working together with him. Alas, she was drunk for most of the time they held any decent conversation but so was he. Did he have fantastic memory, even when drunk? The idea made Daynil fume with jealously.

 

She needed that for all the times she got arrested in Cyrodiil!

 

Regardless of her feelings on the matter, Jorunn still managed to know her intentions before she had even known her intentions. The only problem was that she had no idea how he could've managed. Sighing, she banned the discussion in her mind, finding it both irritating and an almost circular argument of 'I don't remember' and 'I hadn't told anyone'.

 

She left the city once again, this time through the main gates. As she passed the front guards, she could see the vibrant blue of their Stormcloak pride and the yellow crest of a bear that she could only attribute to their leader Ulfric.

 

Only idiots want to be a bear. They're stupid, sleep for nearly half of their lives, and make terrible roaring sounds.

 

Daynil cast her gaze onto the bridge and saw a man walking towards her. Thick furs laid upon his shoulders and fell down his back in a makeshift fur cloak with the skin of a wolf covering his head like a helmet and the paws falling past his face. Tattered blonde hair fell past a heavy beard, a vast contrast between the dark red of his warpaint that resembled three crooked streaks down his face. A large battleaxe was strapped to his back, the hilt protruding from his right shoulder. Heavy steel plated armor protected his torso with crude red paint also scraped across.

 

Or was that blood?

 

Regardless, the man seemed far more prepared for the Skyrim cold than she was. As the figure approached, Daynil recognized the man as Jorunn with a large smile on his face.

 

She walked forward to greet the man but instead was met with a back-breaking hug.

 

"It is good to see you again, my friend!" he exclaimed, squeezing the woman tighter. If she was in a better condition, she would've kicked him in the shin but instead a raspy wheeze escaped her throat. Noticing her struggle, Jorunn jumped back with a smile on his face and placed a hand on her right shoulder.

 

"I was waiting for you! After I heard that Captain Salt-Sage had taken you to the cornerclub, I thought that the least I could do was to wait for you," he said, all while maintaining a large smile. Daynil laughed and gestured towards the bridge. They began to walk towards the road slowly.

 

"Yeah, Gjalund told me that you were waiting," she said, "but I didn't know that I was meant to be as prepared as you! Aren't you Nords impervious to the cold? I'll steal one of those furs if we're travelling together." Gjalund laughed loudly at her comment, attracting the confused glances from the guards.

 

"I'll let you borrow one, of course! But, then we will make you some nice, warm armor," he said, smirking, "or, once we are rich with bounties, we will buy you a nice set of Ebony armor. I'm thinking some fire enchantments. I like to see my enemies go 'boom'!" He enunciated the 'boom' quite loudly, using his hands to emphasize the exact extent of the power he wanted. Daynil found herself agreeing.

 

"Maybe we can get you a nicer battleaxe," she gestured to the steel weapon, "I'm also thinking Ebony. We could be matching!" At her suggestion, Jorunn looked at her horrified that she even suggested such a thing.

 

"Hela will not stand to be replaced!"

 

"You named it Hela?"

 

"Of course," he chortled, "A strong name for a strong woman!" Daynil only rolled her eyes.

 

Despite only just leaving the city, she felt better already. No need to hide her face or avert her eyes. All that mattered now was how well she could fight. She was determined to impress Jorunn, or at least earn some respect for her fighting skills. The closer they got to the road, the more Daynil was confident she had made the correct decision in partnering with Jorunn.

 

Jorunn stopped by the end of the bridge and with a single swipe of his arm, pushed the snow that lay there off to make some room for a map. It was battered and had many signs of wear but other than that, it was a good quality map of Skyrim and the provinces. Jorunn gestured for Daynil to lean over it and pointed towards a nearby mine.

 

"According to this bounty, there's a group of bandits holed up in Gloombound mine, just east of Kynesgrove," Jorunn pointed to the locations on the map, "It should take us about a day's journey to reach Kynesgrove and then we'll rest until it's night so we can attack when they are at their weakest. Sounds good?"

 

Daynil nodded, taking note of the mine's location. Pointing to it, she looked towards Jorunn.

 

"After the mine, where to next?"

 

Jorunn paused, humming softly as he thought. Looking to his side, he pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and opened it. Reading it, he occasionally looked back up at the map. He pointed towards the river and followed it down.

 

"We'll be following the White River to Mixwater mill and then heading southwest towards Knifepoint Hideout. Then we'll decide which bounty we’ll do next," he said. Daynil was quite satisfied with the plan and nodded.

 

Jorunn smiled and packed up his things.

 

"Well," he said, looking out onto the road before him and then to Daynil, "we have quite the journey to make, friend." She smiled at him and walked beside him as they began their long trek.

 

It remained cold for some time but Daynil quickly got to see the beautiful forests that she had known the land for. Jorunn kept an eye out for wolves, humming a lively medley as she admired the beauty of the nature around her.

 

She felt relieved, like a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She was finally seeking her prophecy and ready to finish being important to the world. It would do her some good to pray to Azura, maybe ask for some guidance or a clue, but for now, it felt like she was on the right path.

 

Daynil began to wonder about what kind of prophecy she would be fulfilling. She wouldn't want to have another like hers; to have to tear out her heart over and over again just for everything to fall apart like before. Another prophecy she wouldn't want to experience is one akin to that of the Champion of Cyrodiil. Daynil knew Adrian Dubois, the Breton Hero, as a humorous and careful soul but she knew that the Oblivion crisis had it's toll on her. The endless nightmares of Dremora attacks, the panic attacks that came with summoners and cultists. She frowned, Nirn seemed to make sure all of its heroes were sick of being heroes. It seemed foolish to do such a thing.

 

But then again, wishing for a certain kind of prophecy also made her a fool.

 

Daynil sighed, unaware of the worrying look that Jorunn gave her and looked ahead. Yes, if her life had taught her anything is was that foolish people died faster without ever achieving what they wanted. And the most foolish were those who went against their destiny, that tried to swallow it whole just to spit it out and say 'I am better than what you thought I was'.

 

The sight of the horizon lingered, the tall trees piercing the white of the sky, the snow occasionally blurring the edges between land and clouds. Daynil sighed.

 

She could never be better than what destiny thought she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late but here! Thank you all for the support, I really appreciate the kudos and hits <3 looking forward to the next chapter


	6. Madness Rambles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You have chosen your fate, and the fate of your people, and all the Dunmer shall share your fate, from now to the end of time”  
> \-- ‘Battle of Red Mountain’, transcription of Vivec’s recount

_**North of Kynesgrove, 199 4E** _

 

The hiding face of the sun created an explosion of purple, yellow, and orange against the dark silhouettes of the tall pine trees. Crisp, cold air fogged around the mouth of the travelers, their figures hobbling gruffly across the build-up of snow and leaves. The taller of the two, a burly looking shadow with a large hilt shooting up from their left shoulder, motioned for their partner to draw their bow. The shadow crouched almost immediately, their stance hidden by the foliage of the setting sun. The larger shadow moved forward slowly as to not alert anything, or anyone close by of their presence.

 

As the evening slowly settled, the pair moved towards their target.

 

The bandit had no idea she was being hunted.

 

Stalked.

 

The careless footsteps of the drunk littered the forest floor, rowdy and confident with their strides as the bounty hunters watched and moved closely behind. Her breath sunk into the air with a puff of white, her nose red with cold and her hands full of chilled mead. A soft happiness passed through the woman as she stumbled back to her campsite where her leader waited for her return.

 

Daynil watched the woman as she walked towards a distant flickering flame, her eyes trained on the bandit’s figure. If she was being honest, she would’ve preferred to just find the whole camp and kill them all at once, but Jorunn had asked her to stay low.

 

Casting her eye along the fading horizon, she could see Jorunn walking slowly towards the woman. Raising her left hand, she gestured to him, signaling that she was moving towards higher ground. A momentary silence filled the space between the two before a telltale nod was seen from the man.

 

The way they worked together astounded Daynil as she had not often worked with others since the Akavir expedition. In that regard, Jorunn exceeded every expectation she had foolishly placed upon him.

 

Where she thought he would be large and clunky, he was a delightful mix of a barbaric rogue; a skillful mastery over Alteration magics adding an edge to his deadliness. Jorunn proved himself a charismatic leader, reminding Daynil of herself from a long time ago. In her eyes, it was nice to not be in charge again. Even if he called her his partner, there was no denying the submissive facade that Daynil had provided. Of course, this was not something she was entirely comfortable with (her heart quite used to dealing with the burden) but it was a refreshing change.

 

‘A nice way to settle into things,’ she considered as she continued to move up the hill. Just south of her was the woman they were following, conveniently staggering below Daynil’s position. As the breeze flew by, the smell of smoke and ash filled Daynil’s nose, disclosing the position of the rest of the camp. Jorunn seemed to notice it too as he motioned for Daynil to aim at the drunkard.

 

It seems she had outlived her purpose.

 

Drawing her bow, Daynil took aim. As quick as she let go of the drawstring, the woman collapsed. Dead. Her bow remained upright as if savouring the quiet kill. A small prayer passed through Daynil’s mind as her eyes stared at the woman’s, her smile still upturned in a drunken stupor.

 

It was a small habit, the quick whisper of a prayer as they moved forward, looking for the target. Daynil didn’t know where she had picked it up from, but it gave her something to do instead of looking to the eyes of those who were killed quietly or the gashing wounds of the others who weren’t so lucky. They weren’t innocent people (bandits and murderers never were) but the morality of a person shouldn’t be determined by someone like herself.

 

Especially someone like herself. Who knew how many evil things she had done in her life?

 

Daynil made her way down towards the body of the woman, quickly pulling out her arrow of the still-warm flesh. Once the arrow was returned to her quiver Daynil dragged the body to sit by the closest tree, hoping that the snow would be enough to cover the body until a proper burial could be performed. The movements felt slow. Sluggish. Seeing the body slump against the bark of the tree, snow already clinging to the fur of the bandit’s armour, evoked no familiar feeling of remorse, or even pity.

 

Somehow, Daynil felt like she wasn’t there at that moment.

 

The nagging feeling that she was straying from the path that she needed to follow was a constant since she started this journey. Was she trying hard enough? Was Azura disappointed in her again? Daynil had lost count of the times she had prayed to Azura for guidance, for some sign to show that she was still in the grace of the Reclamations but she only ever got a cold touch on her spine. Paranoia was a friend she was familiar with but she had hoped it would leave her when she had partnered up with Jorunn.

 

Perhaps, it was just an illusion. Something meant to test her resolve. Anything else would break her heart.

 

Daynil shook her head and continued towards Jorunn who had been waiting for her by a thick tree. Even in the dark, she could see the determined look in his eyes as he smiled and ran his hands through his blond hair. Once she was by the tree, she could see the dirt smeared on his face mingling with that of the red warpaint that he had so jovially applied. Jorunn leaned into her, his mouth close to her ears in an effort to minimise the sounds coming from the pair.

 

“Daynil, there are two stationed by the fire there,” the Dunmer looked towards the fireplace, noting the way the two bandits stared at the spit pork hungrily, “I’ll take care of one. You take care of the other.” Nodding, Daynil raised her bow, now aimed at the bandit sitting on the left side of the crackling flame.

 

Thunk!

 

The bandit’s body fell forward, the momentum of the arrow forcing the dead man guiding it. Just as Daynil worried that the other was alerted, a squelching sound indicated that Jorunn had completed his part of the plan, allowing her to move forward and inspect the bodies. Jorunn watched as she lifted the bodies up, positioning them on the chair and then as she stopped to send them off with a prayer.

 

The soft crackle of the fire and the whistle of the wind by the mine rang in Daynil’s ears, her eyes lowered to look at the dead bodies before her. The arrow that protruded from the back of her victim was quickly collected by Jorunn and handed to her carefully. Gesturing to the bodies, Jorunn smirked.

 

“Come on Daynil, we’ve got a few more to make,” his smirk was still on his face as he walked towards the entrance of the mine, dipping his head in a mock bow. Daynil felt a smirk creep onto her face as she walked forward and elegantly bowed towards Jorunn.

 

“Why thank you, kind sir,” she remarked, adopting a noble’s tone. The pair lightly chuckled, both delightfully indulging in the quiet humor.

 

Daynil walked ahead of Jorunn, leading him into the mine. Quietly, she opted for a magical approach, finding her skill with the bow more luck than actual skill. She resisted the urge to chuckle as she thought about what her peers on the Telvanni council would think about her using weapons. In the past that never mattered; her skill with a blade could not be matched, true, but her calling was always the arcane arts. She specialised in Destruction and Illusion, while also being trained in Alteration. Conjuration and Restoration were her weakest points. She had tried to remedy that but it seemed that no matter how much she studied and worked towards proficiency, she could never grasp anything more complicated than a few basic spells.

 

The strangest thing about her magic was that of the plethora of spells that Daynil had mastered in her millennia of study, certain spells seemed to be inaccessible to her. She remembered how to use such spells, her body already tingling with the sensation of magic, but no such magic occurred when she cast them.

 

‘After the Knifepoint job I’ll ask Jorunn if we can head towards that College Gjaland was talking about,’ she thought, ‘I would like to get levitate back.’

 

She felt her hands pulse with magic as she summoned flames through her fingertips. Her fingers cradled the flame as it waited to be used, flickering with vigor. In her left hand, she cast a basic Shield over her body. Daynil was grateful that she still knew this spell for it had saved her life more than once. After feeling the familiar rush of magic, she pressed forward.

 

In the dark of the mine, small torches illuminated the rock, the beautiful silver of iron and black of ebony shone under their light. Daynil walked cautiously past the wooden foundations, occasionally pausing to hear for the sounds of bandits or anything else that could tell her of the things ahead. But nothing. Only silence.

 

Daynil looked towards Jorunn, raising an eyebrow. He seemed to understand the meaning and stood up. She followed suit and stepped towards him, clearing her hands of the magic that just before was poised to kill.

 

“It’s empty here, Jorunn,” she pointed out, “The bandits would’ve posted some guards by this point already.” He nodded, bringing his hand to his beard which he began to stroke in thought.

 

“Normally, I would ask you to cast a detection spell but I think you’re right.” He paused, frowning as he thought. Jorunn grumbled in frustration and he reluctantly returned his battleaxe to its position on his back. “I can’t believe that the Orcs lied about their mine being overrun--”

 

A large thunderstrike interrupted the conversation, the force of it shaking the mine. Daynil clung to the wall desperately while her eyes clambered to see where the source of the energy was coming from. Dust and rocks fell from the ceiling, their interference for her search both infuriating and painful as they hit the pair. Jorunn struggled to stand upright as the mine’s shaking grew in intensity and the walls felt like a blur to Daynil’s touch.

 

As the walls shook, a familiar voice was heard.

 

“Come on, Ravethi! Up for some reunions?” the voice questioned, its charismatic tone evoking nostalgia within the Dunmer. As suddenly as it began, the shaking of the mine stopped and Jorunn struggled to keep upright. Daynil dashed to his side, placing one of his arms on her shoulders and then holding him upright while he regained his balance. She looked to the side as his face paled and he turned to vomit, no doubt due to the sudden shaking.

 

Daynil pondered the meaning of what the voice meant but also acknowledged the fact that this voice knew who she was. For the past 190 or so years, Daynil had been trapped on Akavir, so no one should have known she was still alive, let alone in Skyrim. This voice had to be someone who was on the expedition to Akavir, knew her well, or knew Azura well. They couldn’t have been on the expedition; everyone from that was dead. It couldn’t have been someone who knew her well because she had only ever allowed two people that close, and regrettably, their deaths were also her fault. So that left only Azura, and that meant she was dealing with Daedra.

 

She had dealt with the Daedra before when she was younger of course. It was the simplest way to gain power and back when she was bloodthirsty, cocky, and merciless, that was exponentially beneficial to her. A shocking thought passed through her mind and she shuddered.

 

What if she still owed the Daedra something? It had been years, but when eternity is your lifespan, you tend to not forget grudges.

 

Thankfully, Jorunn brought her out of her thoughts.

 

“You alright, Daynil?” He asked, his face still slightly pallor with sickness. Daynil smiled, albeit fakely, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

“I’m fine,” she looked around and saw a path leading deeper into the mine. “Listen Jorunn, you stay here. You need to rest.” Before Jorunn could protest, she interrupted him. “Trust me. That earthquake took a lot out of you and you can’t help if you feel like you’ll vomit at any minute.” He scoffed slightly but Daynil knew that he saw the logic in her statement.

 

“What if the bandits caused the earthquake? I saw the lightning too, you know,” he retorted, gesturing to the open path, “If I don’t go with you, you could get killed and then used in, I don’t know, mage rituals and stuff.” Daynil sighed, shaking her head at the notion.

 

“I’m not charging in, Jorunn,” she said, “I’ll quietly scout the path. That lightning bolt was too strong to be cast by a novice mage; don’t you want to have a good plan before we rush in?” He paused, contemplating her words.

 

When he nodded silently, Daynil felt her heart swell with victory. Smirking, she patted Jorunn on the shoulder and wished him a quick recovery before sinking to a crouch and continuing her path.

 

With every step, the torches seemed to dull and cold crept into her body. It felt like the mine's walls were like clay being molded to the whim of a careless game. Faces began to appear in the rocky walls of the mine, contorting into various shapes of mistrust, suspicion, and instability. Daynil felt her palms grow hot as the flame was summoned in both hands instinctively to the danger she felt as she continued towards the voice she had heard.

 

Just as her vision seemed to be flooded with the images of the dark faces, a jovial tune shone through them and soon the tunnel was pulsing with colour and magic. Daynil couldn’t help but feel elevated at the sounds of music, the colours swirling around her in a happy daze.

 

‘Snap out of it, if this is a Daedra, its playing with you!’ she forced the thought in her mind, pushing for her thoughts to remain calm and focused.

 

Focusing on the path ahead was a difficult task with the constant distractions. She reassured herself that she had experienced worse and that if anything, this was a welcome challenge. However, Daynil felt her mind drifting to the sight of mushrooms rising out of the ground, their colours changing with the rainbow. From her footsteps, clinging darkness crept out and twisted up her legs in a caricature of her life, depicting various scenes of her childhood with whispers and deceit.

 

Strange creatures with scales and bodies of fish seemed to come out of the walls slowly, their mouths growling with teeth positioned awkwardly. Daynil knew she needed to be scared, or least she needed to keep her focus on the path ahead of her, but she only felt like dancing or laughing at the face of these scaly creatures.

 

Sounds of laughter echoed through the tunnel (that now seemed to go on forever) and Daynil felt herself laughing alongside it. No longer was she crouching, cautious of her steps and way, and instead, she felt the urge to dance or skip to her destination.

 

The tunnel around her had changed drastically from its initial appearance and now she was walking down a dirt path, the sky bright and lively with delightful little fish-gremlins growling and snarling.

 

My, my, it was a perfect way to end the evening.

 

Just as Daynil was going to pick a pretty red flower to give the creatures for their generous welcome, the vision disappeared and she saw herself standing before an old friend.

 

Adrian Dubois, the Champion of Cyrodiil. The Hero of Kvatch. Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.

 

Daynil immediately threw up her hands in defense, a Shield quickly cast to prevent any damage that might come from the famed Champion’s blows. Her breath stopped when Adrian only laughed, the flames extinguishing with a small hiss. The Champion walked towards Daynil, a soft smile on her face as her eyes twinkled with mischief.

 

Adrian hadn’t changed at all. Her long hair was tied up in a ponytail, brilliant maroon hair flowing down her back. Her bright gold eyes were large, seemingly curious at everything they saw. Daynil followed the three deep scars down the woman’s pale skin, tracing the cheekbones down to the cut jaw that seemed to always smile. When she had seen her last, Adrian had dark circles under her eyes, her tall, muscular figure often slouched over a map or operations.

 

Daynil and the Breton had been discussing the trip to Akavir; its importance to the Empire now that Vivec, the last of the Tribunal, had disappeared. Daynil remembered Adrian mentioning her own journey, a private one from which she would never return.

 

What happened? How was it that her dearest friend was able to stand before her now?

 

Daynil felt arms wrap around her, basking her in a familiar warmth. Strangely, she hugged the person back, feeling somewhat safe in their arms. Unfortunately, Daynil could only enjoy the hug for a few moments before the warmth slowly moved away and looked up at her.

 

“Daynil. I--”

 

“How are you still alive?” Daynil gave Adrian no room to talk, stepping back from Adrian and summoning a flame in her left hand. This could’ve been an illusion.

 

Mephala coming to finish the job?

 

Adrian laughed, entertaining the idea that her actions were some joke before scoffing at the seriousness of Daynil’s resolve.

 

“That doesn’t matter,” Adrian shrugged, turning around and touching the side of the tunnel, “what matters, is you and I. We have something to talk about.” She clicked her fingers and a strange staff… walked towards her? The wooden body of the weapon has grown a crude pair of legs, the brown eye of the staff looking around confusedly. Adrian picked it up and with a single tap, a lavish table appeared before the two. Daynil felt her body being pushed into one of the chairs and watched as Adrian took a seat across from her. Despite this, Daynil refused to let her questions idly pass.

 

“I asked you a question, Adrian,” she attempted to stand but fell back into the seat, “how are you still alive? They told me that you jumped off the bloody White-Gold Tower!”

 

“I did.”

 

“Then you’re a ghost, or an illusion conjured up by some Daedra, no one can survive that, not even you,” she said as Adrian only smiled, “if you’re Mephala’s, then tell me outright. I can accept my fate.” At that Adrian chortled, her head thrown back and her hands on her stomach. Daynil watched as Adrian’s hair slowly turned white and the clothes that she had on before turning into a vibrant regalia of purple and yellow. Before she knew it, Adrian was looking straight at her, a large smile on her face.

 

“Accepting your fate is something we Daedra have been arguing about for some time,” Adrian looked towards Daynil, smirking.

 

“‘We Daedra’?”

 

Daynil didn’t need Adrian to answer her question, she already knew. The way Adrian just brought things into existence; the visions from the tunnel, the strange creatures, by the Ancestors, even the chair and table she was sitting on.

 

She could feel the magic press against her, the sheer power of the god sitting by her threatening to crush her. Daynil shivered under Adrian’s gaze, her mind frantically trying to figure out exactly who she was dealing with. As if noticing her struggle, Adrian laughed.

 

“I know what you’re thinking, Daynil. I still remember being friends with you, you know?” The woman laughed, reminding Daynil of all the time the two had spent together. They had coped together, worked together, helped their people together. “I’ll give you a hint. I’m that little blemish on your psyche. That strange idea when you’re drunk to kill all your friends.” Adrian flicked her hand upwards and a small wisplight floated above the pair.

 

“I’m different for every person, you know. For some, I’m the little voice that tells them they’re never safe. For others, I’m the motivation that drives them to power. Ha, you should familiar with that one,” Adrian seemed oddly serious but still had a hint of a smile on her face, “Oh come on, Nerevarine, you have to recognise me! I’m feeling a little offended, you know?”

 

“Forgive me, but I don’t--”

 

“Spare me the platitudes! They never worked on me before, they won’t work on me now.” Adrian was quiet, still smiling, but quiet, as if waiting for Daynil to break the silence.

 

“... I don’t know who you are besides Adrian, and if I’m being honest, I’m trying to work that out too,” Daynil said, “but I came here because you asked me to.”

 

“That you did, that you did. Though, I think my finger had something to do with it… everyone loves my finger! The boom, the crackle, the explosions! Good fun for the family!” Daynil looked at her, confused at her meaning. Adrian sighed and clicked her fingers. Her long white hair seemed to shorten as her face grew more angular and a rough beard took its place upon her chin. Daynil gasped as she realised who it was.

 

Sheogorath.

 

“I suppose I have to give up the whole thinking game,” Adrian’s voice was masculine, the accent on the Daedra’s words harsh and foreign to Daynil’s ears, “It’s a big circle you see, this whole I get you to come down here, guess who I am, reveal myself, and then poof! Mephala eats you up in front of Sanguine because she’s kinky like that. Or is a square? When Mephala and I had this talk, I wasn’t around! Of course, I always have gotten the best end of the bargain because you can’t get the better of insanity… My you looked bored, or are you just confused?”

 

“I don’t understand how I’m important in anyone’s scheme besides Azura’s,” Daynil said, unsure of her words, “I do Azura’s bidding and then I get to disappear, like I wanted to.”

 

“I’m breaking the cycle, to put it plainly to your little ears,” Sheogorath stopped, “or should I say long ears? You have rather large ears. Can you hear more with them? How did you folk even end up with them? I’d ask but Akatosh and I aren’t on speaking terms; the whole thing with Martin really put a hole in our relationship.” It was proving too difficult to fully comprehend what Adrian was now, especially since she had revealed herself as the Mad God. Akatosh? Did he mean Martin Septim?

 

Even on Vvardenfell, she had avoided interactions with the Daedra, hoping that his influence would be held at bay by her avoidance. When Adrian had mentioned the god in passing, Daynil immediately shut down the conversation. Where others had called it an irrational fear, an illogical one at that (why would a legend be afraid of a god?), she knew it as the truest fear; the fear of losing control.

 

“Besides, disappearing was always something you failed at particularly,” Sheogorath leaned forward, pointing his fork at her casually. How did he even get that fork? “Your conning business failed, so you ran to Skyrim, vampirism made you run back to Cyrodiil. Vvardenfell was a little bit of exception and you got so attached! Even going to Akavir needed a push; just ask Mephala. An awful lot of running involved in your life. Actually, talking about Mephala, you and I need to talk about that.”

 

Sheogorath leaned back, his arm slung around the back of the padded chair as he looked up with golden eyes. He lazily shot Daynil a smirk, running a hand through his hair and winking. Daynil blinked, suspicion forming in the pit of her stomach. The sight of the Daedra was… alluring, but insanity often was.

 

Part of the reason she was so terrified of it.

 

“We both know you want some specific things,” he seemed to have not noticed Daynil’s distrust, “you want freedom from these prophecies, you want isolation, you want your life back.” Sheogorath stopped to sit properly in his chair before leaning forward, dangerously close to Daynil’s own face. “Maybe, you want to die properly.”’

 

His voice disappeared into a whisper, golden eyes no longer shining with mischief. Daynil was reminded that this was Adrian; still the woman that she had cradled when she awoke from another dream where Dagon stormed the Imperial City. Still the woman who had such little value for her life that every day Daynil worried that she wouldn't come back. She thought back to her thoughts on Nirn’s heroes, how none of them had any semblance of a happy life because of their cursed destinies.

 

Such a sad quest, to be a hero.

 

Perhaps that was why Adrian could grow close to Daynil. They both suffered from heinous expectations, and both failed epically to create the world they both desired for the people they wanted to protect. The heroics of their lives separated them from the life they could’ve had and made them so untouchable that they had no choice but to be drawn to each other. Not everyone could understand the drink of destiny and its glorious, painful hangover.

 

“... I have a mission. And then I’ll disappear,” Daynil whispered, “I will not betray Azura.” Betraying Azura would just bring her pain, like before.

 

She was still afraid of thunderstorms.

 

“We can help each other, Nerevarine. All you have to do is run an errand for me. Look at that! I’m asking nicely, without all that blood required when I have to force you,” Sheogorath placed a familiar parcel in front of Daynil. It was the parcel that held the strange artifact that Gjalund was worried about, the one that the Redguard, Priya, had left with. “I want the soul that’s inside this soul gem. If it starts talking, just ignore it, like the other voices in your head. Or listen. It would be nice having you as the Duchess. Of what? Not sure, maybe you should come and figure that out. But never mind that.”

 

“How did you…?”

 

Sheogorath smirked as he morphed into the familiar face of Priya. With a sigh, Daynil shook her head and grumbled. ‘Of course it was him,’ she grumbled. When her eyes met his again, his face had returned back to its previous shape.

 

“Take the soul gem to an Orc called Rulzob Aglagdu. He lives in a small shack by Fort Kastav,” he stood up, gesturing for Daynil to do the same, “he will tell you what to do next. I would tell you more but as it happens, I’m not the most popular guy on the block anymore in big ol’ Oblivion. Let’s just say plans are in action, lots of plans.”

 

“And why am I helping you?”

 

“I’ll give you something dangerous to have, but you’ll be thankful for it, I know that. You’ll have my favour,” the table and chair he had conjured disappeared as she stood, the appearance of the tunnel returning to normal. In the light of the torches, the god seemed almost sympathetic. Almost like the Champion Daynil knew and loved. “Ha, who am I kidding? You always had my favour, Daynil.”

 

Sheogorath’s regalia morphed into thousands of butterflies, each swirling with colours that seemed to change whenever Daynil looked upon them. With a melancholy smirk, he disappeared into the swarm, leaving her dumbfounded, holding a parcel with a soul gem contained within.

 

She stood there, thinking about what Sheogorath had said to her. He didn’t tell her anything worthwhile, just that she had to bring the soul gem to some Orc. How would this Rulzob know what to do? Why did Sheogorath need the soul? What was important about the soul? All these questions and no answers. If she was being, she was tired of being left in the dark and expected to just magically make things right. What if Rulzob couldn’t help her? What if the soul couldn’t be taken out? The Daedra seemed to only work in certainties, it seemed.

 

If she had to look for the silver lining, Daynil did have to admit that the fact it was a soul gem brought her pride. She wasn’t so clueless in the end.

 

Pocketing the package, she quickly made her way back to the hopefully-resting Jorunn. Thankfully, the Nord was sleeping, his back to the wall of the tunnel.

 

She kneeled next to the man and gently shook his shoulder.

 

“Jorunn, wake up,” she spoke softly, not wanting to surprise the warrior. His eyes shot open, terrified for a second before shifting back to a normal calm. Daynil stepped back and looked back towards Jorunn, who was standing up slowly.

 

“Can’t say I got a good nap, but I managed to sleep after all,” he yawned, “But you took your time. Any bandits down there?” Daynil thought back to the psychedelic experience between worlds, the meeting with her long-time friend and current Daedra, and the gift of a talking soul gem.

 

“No, nothing interesting,” she said nonchalantly, “empty mine, really. Maybe we should talk to the Orcs about it.” Jorunn raised an eyebrow but other than that mentioned no opinion on the matter.

 

“Then let’s go talk to the Chieftain.” Jorunn walked past Daynil, moving up towards the mine’s entrance. She looked back towards the mine before touching the soul gem.

 

She could feel it pulsing with a powerful energy, not as powerful as Sheogorath’s but enough to think it housed something that edged on being just as powerful. Daynil wondered about the identity of the person within the soul gem; what kind of life had they lived? Why were they in the soul gem? Her curiosity was not satisfied with the vague nature of the task and naturally she wanted to seek out Rulzob to figure out the mystery.

 

Unfortunately, the Orc was in the complete opposite direction of Jorunn and Daynil.

 

‘I’ll take it up once we finish with Knifepoint Ridge,’ she thought, determined to discover any scrap of knowledge of the soul gem she had obtained. Hopefully, Jorunn wouldn’t mind traveling all the way north.

 

Ah, was she joking?

 

He would love it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive got a few chapters lined up, just in the process of editing! Sorry that this is so late guys ;; as always, thank you so much for all the kudos and kind comments! I love hearing what you guys think <3
> 
> Here's to me posting in a week's time !


	7. Familial Bonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Do not tempt the Daedra Lords with restlessness.”
> 
> \-- Anonymous, The Ritual of Appeasement

 

 

Oh, how she despised insanity, all of its forms and instances.

 

She loved a challenge and often welcomed it into her little realm of lies and deceit, but the threads of the insane seemed to vibrate with a longing to push against what was expected of them. Before, she would’ve laughed, knowing that all mortals fall under her web and she would always receive the juiciest part of the deal, insane or not. But, the most recent incarnation of Sheogorath had done more than just defy Fate.

 

No, he had tried to change it for his own whims and wishes.

 

Just the thought of it dragged a cold blade of anger down her spine and into her stomach, causing her mouth to spew out volcanoes and pain with syllables unknown to mortal ears. Dark tendrils shadowed her every move as she walked towards her throne, eager to cast her eyes upon her realm once more and savour its nature. The swirling purple and black of the marble floor below her feet welcomed her home, her lovely servants slowly appearing before her to keep their curiosity sated. Oh, her precious servants; they were all so cute when inquisitive. 

 

With a flick of her hand, they scattered to their own duties, leaving the Prince to sit down and fester in her own thoughts. For a while, Mephala did just that; pondering over her endeavors within the mortal realm, occasionally laughing at the actions of her Champion. Despite not owning the Ebony Blade, her Champion managed to complete any task given to him with a perfect degree of satisfaction. 

 

Eventually, her mind drifted to the source of her anger; Sheogorath. Mephala scowled, almost daring herself to appear once more in his home and question him. He was proving to be a difficult ally. 

 

At first, it seemed he understood the situation; that cursed Dunmer was changing things in ways they weren’t meant to be changed. Although she wasn’t really changing Fate, she was pushing the limits of her web and thus, needed to be out of the picture. That was the thing with Heroes; they blurred the lines and the uncertainty of their futures always struck a nerve when they appeared. But the Nerevarine needed to be an outlier, needed to be selfish.

 

At least the other Heroes had the audacity to complete their quests and promptly die. 

 

Sheogorath and her had a good plan; send the girl to Akavir. Of course, it was predetermined that she would go, but Mephala would not take any unnecessary risks. The woman had proved to the Prince previously that it wasn’t wise to underestimate the extent of her prophecies. 

 

The girl, Daynil Ravethi, had a knack for rewriting her own path. So much so that Mephala had decided since the Dunmer’s birth that she did not like her. She had known that there would be many Nerevarines in the quest to fulfil Azura’s prophecy, so she paid no heed to the girl when she was sent to Cyrodiil and, unknowingly, groomed for the role. And her Fate was then to die in Skyrim, bandits stumbling upon her farm and murdering both her and her brother.

 

She was meant to be meaningless. To be a stepping stone for the <em>successful</em> Nerevar incarnates, as dictated by flooding waves of Fate.

 

When Mephala saw the woman became a vampire instead of the gruesome destiny laid out for her, she immediately consulted her brother on the matter. Mora had simply told her that it was a possibility for the deviance to occur, simply because of her status as Nerevar incarnate. So another string in the web had to be fixed, to reflect the defect. 

 

And so she waited for the problem to be fixed. Mephala filled her time with her daily dalliances; sex, murder, betrayal. 

 

All the fun stuff. 

 

Centuries passed and still the woman had survived, thriving on power and wealth beyond her right to it. The Nerevarine binged on luxury and power, only to have it all taken away in a chance capture. 

 

Mephala chuckled as she remembered her reaction to the whole situation. When she had heard that the woman was to be executed (and that the action aligned with the Strings) she was ecstatic. She had personally visited the executioner in mortal form to witness the happening, to see the dying face of the woman who caused such annoyance in her early years. Magnus was high in the sky, the clear blue that was above them enticing such a delectable mood within the Prince. With bated breath, she watched as the headsman raised their axe high, ready to deal the blow that mattered most. Her stomach knotted in excitement, the same she had felt when she meddled in the most delightful of affairs. 

 

But it didn’t last. 

 

Just as the woman was taking her last breath, the headsman was stopped and the woman was taken away. Mephala had stormed out of the square, dropping her physical body to travel to her shrine where she tasked her worshippers with some duties to keep her satisfied. 

 

It was ordained that Daynil Ravethi could do such things (curse that Hero complex that plagued Nirn) but it didn’t mean that Mephala needed to like it. Especially now that Azura had been bragging about her little ‘daughter’ being important again. Bah! Like she needed another reminder that Fate had been played with once again. 

 

Mephala had gone to Sheogorath to help her, like he had done before but he outright refuses her. He certainly had more gall than his previous incarnation. 

 

But, she would wait for him to come around. Oh, and he would change his mind. She had something to hold over him and taunt him with. The sweet irony that her trump card was in fact a gift from Sheogorath himself. But enough musing.

 

Mephala had a guest.

 

“Mora, is the front door not working?” she inquired as a mass of muck and green swirled into existence in front of her. At first a singular eye pushed through the mass, moving in and out of focus as many others appeared beside and behind it. Soon, hundreds of eyes shifted through the mass, constantly moving out of Mephala’s primary vision. 

 

Hermaeus Mora, Daedric Prince of the ferocious tides of Fate seemed to grow closer. His presence could be considered unnerving, uncomfortable even, but she was used to the uneasy feeling it gave her sometimes. 

 

“Your tricks did not fool me,” Mora spoke with a booming voice, one that managed to echo in the recesses of her mind but still seem like a whisper, “It’s easier to ensnare mortals with your traps. I presumed it was faster to meet you here, in the center of the wheel.” His body shifted again and Mephala could feel his presence move closer. 

 

“I suppose you already heard about Sheogorath,” she began, gesturing to Mora, “then you know that I couldn’t convince him without that token of mine.” 

 

“As foreseen. His actions were written since the beginning. The path diverges now, and I assume that it is in your best interest to take advantage of that,” he said, “but I am not here to talk about what awaits us.” Mephala raised her eyebrows, unsure of Mora’s true intent. 

 

“And what would you have me talk about, dear brother?”

 

“Sanguine has taken something of yours.”

 

Mephala frowned, the information clearly unexpected. Sanguine? When? She and the Prince of Revelry indulged in various carnal acts, as expected of their respective spheres of power. Occasional friends occasionally have orgies. It was a simple fact. But to steal from her? It seemed that the Prince has divulged his hedonistic nature a tad too much. 

 

“Mm? And what has he stolen?” Mephala asked, her annoyance laced in her voice intricately. 

 

“I’m… not sure. When I try to look, it is blurred, almost hidden from me,” his voice sounded annoyed, “Sanguine covered his tracks this time, it seems. How? I do not know. It leaves one to wonder what could be so important.”

 

“You can’t see it? That’s more than troubling,” she mused, a glance flickering up to the proud web that swayed above, “but I don’t believe it could give me trouble. Sanguine does anything for fun and once he has it, he’ll give it back. As is his nature.”

 

“You place too much trust in Sanguine.”

 

“It’s not trust; it’s logic. His actions become predictable if you understand his motives.”

 

Mora said nothing in response, only staring at the space from all possible angles. This whole business with stolen possessions didn’t sit well with Mephala; the timing was not ideal. It was all too convenient. 

 

“I will simply wait, Mora. Your silence has me seething.” 

 

“Amusing,” If Mora was amused by this, he did not show it. Mephala only scoffed, crossing primary pair of arms across her chest. “You talk as if the Strings have already told you to act.”

 

“They haven’t,” she growled, the sound twisted with visions of crying mothers and murdered kings, “I am deceit, dear brother, and I know the nature of all who can deceive. Sanguine cannot hurt me.”

 

“As you have said,” he spoke, “Your intimate knowledge allows you foresight into the actions even I am blinded by. So you will remain docile. And then what, sister, what happens when Fate twists again? Will you run to me with complaints?”

 

Mephala found herself becoming less tolerant of Mora’s attitude, her nails digging into her throne. It seemed Mora had grown arrogant in the terms of their relationship. She had just as much power as he, yet he believed that he could comment on her nature like it were his own? 

 

“You speak so confidently for one who is in the dark,” Mephala drawled, her black eyes narrowing with frustration, “Mora, you should know better than to judge me. I am also a reflection of Fate, yet you show me disrespect. I suggest you hold your tongue while you are here in my plane.”

 

The Prince shifted in his standing, warping the space around him. He was annoyed, it seemed. Well, no matter; Mephala was quite content to put him in his place. 

 

Hermaeus Mora had decided his time in the Spiral Skein was done however. Extensions of his form faded from existence, pulling apart his manifested flesh into his realm of Apocrypha. All the while, his eyes focussed on Mephala, almost examining her reactions with strange fascination.

 

“I have said what I wanted to say. If you were smart, you’d heed my warning,” he said after the silence, “I will take my leave.” Mephala didn’t waste words on his departure, opting to nod and raise a finger in a farewell. Her Spiral felt a shift in existence as Hermaeus Mora left, the traces of his tendrils and eyes slowly dissipating. 

 

Despite Mora’s many remarks, he did have a point. A low growl escaped her throat as his annoying advice rang in her head. Why did he have to be right? It was so much easier to ignore and poke fun at him rather than to follow through with his instructions. 

 

“Do not interrupt me,” she called out to her realm, her voice barely above a whisper. Knowing that all would understand, Mephala looked up at the ceiling and admired the handiwork of her Strings. A familiar comfort; one that she would indulge herself in. Her body began to move upwards, her limbs deforming gently to replicate her most comfortable form. Eight spindly legs moved with a grotesque grace up into the intricate web where Mephala could surround herself in her work. 

 

The problem with the Nerevarine could be ignored for now, even though it frustrated her to no end. Mora was right that Sanguine’s theft was serious and that action was needed. Despite her assurances of Sanguine’s nature, she had the aching suspicion that stealing her possession was not an individual task. 

 

That meant that she also had to determine who had helped Sanguine get his way and why. her first thought was Molag Bal (the insufferable prick) for he always found a way to be like sand and dust; annoying. But Molag Bal would be obvious about it, finding any excuse to taunt her. If he had helped, she would’ve known almost immediately.

 

So of course, her mind turned to Sheogorath. 

 

Now him helping Sanguine. Yes, that made sense. Sheogorath would not be against stealing something for her, especially now when he wanted to change Fate for his desires. Not to mention that he and Sanguine thoroughly enjoyed each other, making him all the more easier to convince. What they would steal remained a mystery however. She had nothing truly worth stealing, save a few artifacts scattered here and there. 

 

If they wanted the artifacts, they were all on Tamriel were her influence was felt strongest. If those Princes wanted to steal them, they wouldn’t be able to do it so quietly. 

 

Mephala could do it herself, but she felt almost sorry for the mediocre tasks given to her lovely champion. Why waste a perfectly delectable man on such simple jobs? Chuckling, she decided that it was time to visit Tamriel once again. 

 

With a click of her fingers, she was gone from the Spiral and silence was felt once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late ! RIP my regular posting schedule
> 
> Since I have no access to electronics besides my laptop, it seems that this is the only thing I can do. Thanks again for you patience! I'll try my best to update more regularly. 
> 
> I should mention that I am currently being bogged down with studies as this is my last year and finals will be coming before I know it haha. Still! Do not despair! I will do my best to update :D I'm sorry to all my friends who I can't respond to currently;;; I'm still working on the electronics problem ! 
> 
> Now, thats enough of my whining ! Thanks for reading and I am ecstatic to hear what you all think!!


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